


The Wolves with Teeth in the World

by JessicaPendragon



Series: Non Canon Keela Lavellan [12]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Solavellan, post solavellan, rylen x inquisitor, what if
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessicaPendragon/pseuds/JessicaPendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fen’Harel won, the present dismantled to make way for the past, and now almost three decades later there is a new rebel wolf of the Dales that fights against the injustices of the Elvhen. They call themselves Fen’Lin and have come to devour the Dread Wolf’s kingdom and his heart, something he thought lost long ago.</p><p>The main story is 9 chapters and completed. The remaining, labeled Aftermath, are a sequel/follow up to wrap up the effects of Fen'Lin's rebellion.</p><p> <a href="http://jessicapendragon.tumblr.com/post/137826034089/the-wolves-with-teeth-in-the-world-masterpost">Tumblr Link</a><br/></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div><a href="http://jessicapendragon.tumblr.com/post/137773556894/playlist-for-the-wolves-with-teeth-in-the-world-a">Playlist</a><br/><a href="http://jessicapendragon.tumblr.com/post/138681771504/an-aesthetic-board-for-the-blood-wolf-in">Fen'Lin's Aesthetic Board</a><br/>
            </blockquote>





	1. Judgement

**Author's Note:**

> I am an idiot who deleted the whole story instead of a chapter. (crying) So uploading it again. Also, I would avoid reading any of the comments so you aren't spoiled. Unless you hate mystery and suspense, then go for it!

art by masseffxt

* * *

 

 

They bring the prisoner in through the gilded doors.

Rusted iron drags across the white marbled floors, clacking loudly with each hampered step he takes. Down the length of the hall, nobles titter and talk behind manicured hands at the dirty elf whose skin is only clean where the shackles have made his wrists red. Clothes are torn and smeared, face haggard, but he straightens as much as he can as he approaches the Dread Wolf’s throne. 

A voice rings through the crystalline hall. “We bring forth Pherin tel Dales, a blacksmith from this beloved city, who murdered Aerinvathor tel Arlathan one month ago. He awaits final judgement.”

Guards bring the accused down to his knees and Fen’Harel does not wince at the impact made, ignores the way a quiet hiss slips through clenched teeth. It would do little good to show his displeasure before this throng. “Do you have any words you wish to say before your sentence is announced?” the lord asks.

A tongue moves across cracked lips as deep and large brown eyes lift to face the cut of clear blue ones. There is awe in the gaze, reverence, and yet a determination unwavering from the daunting task. “I won’t deny it. He was-he was trying to force himself upon my daughter. I meant to only stop him and I...I killed him, but it was not in cold blood nor with true intent.”

“Intent does not change the outcome.” There are few who know this better than the figure at the head of the room. 

“I know, my lord. I only beg for understanding and mercy.” 

The air is quiet for a few moments, breaths held in anticipation, before the judgement falls. “And you have it. You will be executed by a swift blade tomorrow.”

Pherin’s face twists, all manner of supplication leaving him now that there is no reason for it. There is only anger and something like pity that digs daggers into Fen’Harel’s chest. He has seen it before as the world burned and her love turned to ash. “How generous of you to spare me a painful death. Would an Elvhen meet with the same sentence in my place?”

“The payment for a life is one in return. It has always been our way.”

Laughter barks from Pherin’s mouth, broken as the guards yank him to his feet again. “Then you have struck a fool’s bargain. We all know a Dalish life is not worth the same as an Elvhen's to you!

_“Did you hear? He called Fen’Harel a fool.”  
_

_“He deserves more than a clean death, the savage.”_

“Remove him.” Fen’Harel’s order echoes over the whispered gossip. A few more comments and curses fly from the prisoner’s mouth, but the guards are quick to drag him from the glistening hall. Lord Fen’harel instead watches how the noble elven and elvhen begin to separate in the crowds, eyes narrowing and faces turning down in scowls. Fancy birds remembering the differences of their feathers.

He stands abruptly and all chatter stops. “We are finished for the day. Disperse.”

Fen’Harel does not wait to see if they obey as he turns behind his throne and disappears through a curtained doorway. He walks on and on, metal boots clipping with each hurried step, reminding him of the prisoner’s chains, until he is far from the crowds and staggered sentries. Alone, he pauses before a window open to the sprawling cityscape below. 

Magic drifts through the air, translucent shimmering currents where spirits fly in between the Fade and the waking world with barely a thought. Golden spires reach high into the clear sky no longer scarred, white gleaming buildings and houses caught like clouds expand across the city. It is everything he remembers from his world, but some things have changed. His eyes glance towards the west where a visible line divides a small portion apart. The houses and stores were once vibrant colors alive with possibilities, but now many of them are faded, blackened by fires and circumstances. 

The world of the Elvhen and of the surviving Elven, oil and water that resists mixing and sometimes does with a volatile force. For now, he can only hear the sound of seagulls calling, bells ringing in the distance to herald the coming hour, but he can feel the strain unseen, hear the earth shaking before the major quake. This was supposed to be the dream made real, not nightmares dredged up from both worlds. It was not supposed to happen this way, but she told him it would be so and like all the times before, he would not listen.

Fen’Harel glances away from his kingdom showing cracks and places a hand over his heart. He should have listened.

* * *

At least they are kind enough to remove his shackles for this last night. 

Pherin rubs the tender flesh of his wrists gently as he paces his small cell. The window far from the ground offers little light in the night, but he has memorized the length of it during his month of captivity. He had nothing but time and now, now it is all but spent. Tomorrow he will die by the Dread Wolf’s justice.

With a growl he plops down on the bench and throws his back into the hard, stone wall. There is no mercy to be found in the whims of the Elvhen, but he hoped Fen’Harel would be different. It was the ancient god that first held out his hand to the modern elves when they all emerged from the rubble of Thedas remade. For a time, it seemed every elf would finally find their place in the world, but something changed. The Dread Wolf rules from his ivory tower and does not walk among them anymore, does not see what has become of his creation. Or refuses to see.

“It looks quite cozy in there.”

Pherin jumps back to his feet, gasping, as a strange voice fills his room. He glances towards the steel studded door, but there is no one peering through. The walls around him are thick, complete in their isolation.

“I’m sure you’d like to get out though.”

He glances up to the window and finds a figure beyond shadowed by the night. “What…who…”

“Would you move back a little, please?”

His feet obey even if his mind is still trying to wrap around the fact that there is someone hanging outside his cell nearly fifty feet up in the air. There is a brief, blinding flash of light, the air wobbles, and he watches as the iron bars disintegrate into dust. They waste little time and climbs through to drop a few feet in front of him. Pherin can only see a shape in the dark, something large with pointed ears, and he slowly backs away until he bumps into the door.

A softer light fills in the room and reveals his companion. It is no beast, but his trepidation does not disappear completely. There are claws on their left hand made by a metal gauntlet that extends all the way up to shoulder, but a familiar body is encased in dark leather and cloth, a body he thinks might be feminine from the gentle curves. He cannot be completely sure for they wear a large mask covering most of their countenance. It is the top part of a wolf’s face, a long black snout with dangerous teeth, yellow eyes, and russet fur that reminds him of dried blood draping behind their head and across their shoulders. 

“Who…what are you?”

A smile greets him first. “I heard how you stood against the Dread Wolf today,” she, he believes now that he can hear better, says. “Not many elven would dare to do such a thing.”

“My fate was already decided. It didn’t seem to matter.”

“And do you think Fen’Harel deserves to pass judgement upon you from his polished throne?”

Pherin pauses before answering, wondering if this is some trap or trick. He doubts any of his kind would be able to pull of such a feat of obvious magic as to scale these walls. “There is…a lot of injustice in this world,” he says carefully and watches the smile widen.

“There are many others that see the same things you do. There are many that would fight back against the oppression of the Elvhen before they are once again driven from their homes. They will fight for freedom and equality, and they could use someone of your skills to help. I will take you to them, if you so wish.”

“I have not heard of this movement.”

“That’s because it truly begins today. With this, with you.” She holds out her hand and he is happy to see no claws on this one, just long fingers. “Will you join us and bring justice to our world?”

In the distance, he hears the heavy footfalls of the guards walking the long corridors, a signal of his current fate and the inescapable reality of most of his kin. They are all prisoners beneath the heel of oppression when they were once promised with so much more. It was not the shemlen that lied to them this time, but their own, their god who betrayed them once more.

“What will become of Fen’Harel?”

“I will see him _bleed_.”

Decided, Pherin reaches for her hand and watches her grin grow sharp.

* * *

“What happened?” Fen’Harel asks as he climbs the last of the steps to this level and follows the sentries. The hall is dimly lit but clean although there is a certain smell as he passes a series of cells. He will comment upon it later. These Dalish may be criminals, but he will not see them living in complete squalor.

“We are not sure. Magic was surely used, but we cannot tell how it was done. They left a strange marking upon the wall we have not seen before as well. Here it is, my lord.”

Another guard holds open the door ahead of them and he sweeps by, shoulders squared and hands clasped confidently behind his back. His mannerisms abruptly change, however, body stiffening and feet sliding to a stop, once he is within. He does not notice the tipped over bowl in the corner, the scratch marks on the walls, nor the missing bars letting unfiltered sunlight stream through.

All of his attention is for the symbol chalked into the far wall and some forgotten feeling slithers up his spine. Breath becomes a difficult thing to catch, the blood in his veins roars, limbs struggle to hold the weight of his body and the realization of what it is, what it represents. For he has seen it before, has stood beneath those flaring lines of fire and the tip of the sword. He watched the last banner burn, a legacy never to be seen in this new world.

As Fen’Harel gazes into the all seeing eye of the Inquisition again, he realizes what that feeling latching on inside is. It is fear.


	2. Avarice

They set their sights on Halamshiral.

Of all places for an Elven uprising to begin it seems fitting for it to be the original home of the Dales. And they are all Dalish now, those that survived the chaos of a fallen world, even if they never wore vallaslin or ran with halla. In the end none of the differences mattered when the Elvhen arose from a long sleep, looked down upon their muddled legacy, and found them wanting.

Rumors blow through the streets like wind through reeds, whispers of a movement to bring equality to the Dalish. Such things have spread before, embers that never found a spark, but this feels different. They speak of a strange figure that freed a damned blacksmith from his prison, a wolf that is no friend to the Elvhen. A wolf to challenge Fen’Harel.

All she need do is prove herself first.

“What are you doing? Stop!”

Fen’Lin watches from across the way as the store owner’s table is overturned. Glass figurines, dishes, and other designs crash to the ground and shatter into thousands of pieces like colored rain as the two Elvhen dressed in danger smirk with satisfaction.

“No, please!” The Dalish elf is beside himself, hands grasping tight to silvering hair, desperately trying to halt their destruction as they ransack the delicate vases displayed on shelves next. No one from the crowded streets offers to interfere. Only a few even bother to stop at all while most scatter like rats with their heads down.

“Lord Volasile expects your payment by tomorrow eve. He’ll be here personally.”

“You have just destroyed all my work for the week! How can I possibly pay him now?”

“A difficult situation to be sure.” Their laughter follows them as they head down the street and Fen’Lin steps closer to watch the desolate despair rage across the man’s face. 

“He will be the one to pay,” she says. He does not see or hear her, hidden by the cloaking spell wrapped around her body, but she sees him. She has heard the cry of the Elven and has waited too long to set things right. 

For a few moments she walks behind the lord’s men and takes note of the number of their weapons, their placement, looks for any magical items to enchance their powers. Their final destination is not hers, not yet, so after a few blocks she veers into an alleyway as they continue on towards the Elvhen district. A mask slips over her face, not the massive wolf’s head, but a gold one styled in the old Orlesian fashion that covers her from crown to chin. Anonymity is her greatest ally at the moment, but she imagines the day when she will cast it off to show what’s beneath. To show  _him_  what he has made her.

She climbs over walls, dips beneath tresses, and finds the enchanted entrance to their base beneath Halamshiral’s museum. There is something poetic about this choice. The Elvhen have done their best to fill the halls above with their version of a perfect history when the reality of their actions sits below their feet. As she finally drops her spell some of the resistance fighters bow their heads or bend at the waist but all watch her in silence, enraptured. It is a different matter when she enters the council chambers.

“You are late,” Reiveth accuses before the door finishes shutting behind her. He hides his face beneath a mask as well, scarlet in color, but she can still see how his blue eyes scrunch with exaggerated annoyance. 

“They took their time.”

“What have you learned?” Briala asks. She does not wear her mask whenever possible having lived in one for too long and her appearance is fearsome enough with the heavy burn marks on the right of her neck and up the side of her face. 

“He will be at the glass maker’s tomorrow night. Four guards, if we can go by his previous ventures.”

“Then it is time to strike.”

Reiveth gives a pleased hum, hands rubbing together. “What excitement! The first official maneuver of the Red Knights.”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes at his enthusiasm. There have been many like him, aristocrats playing rebellion with delusions of grandeur and glory. Many break when first blood is spilled and the notion of getting hands dirty becomes an unwanted reality. She won’t hold her breath in hopes for him staying long, but she has been wrong before.   

“Nevaelathsan and I will infiltrate the estate while you tend to Volasile.” The last member of her council steps forward at Briala’s words. The Elvhen towers over most of them but Fen’Lin meets their colorless eyes that seem to bleed as they reflect the garnet mask. She has never seen Nevaelathsan without it.

“You truly believe she’ll be able to handle that many on her own?” Reiveth says.

“Are you volunteering to come with me?” Fen’Lin’s smile is sharp, taunting. 

Before he can respond with what no doubt is an excellent response, Briala reaches across the table between them for the markers and maps. “Let us review our plans. They must be perfect if we are to succeed.” 

Fen’Lin spends most of the next day perching atop the houses across from the glass maker’s house or walking around the perimeter while her Red Knights move into place on the other side of the city. When the sun touches against the horizon, the shop closes and three figures leave through the door. The owner, a woman and a small boy. A family.

Fen’Lin watches as they embrace, as the father kisses his child’s brow and hugs his wife, and forgotten parts of her heart unfurl at the sight, dreams and wishes, memories taken when a wolf tore with unforgiving teeth at the world. The man stands in the middle of the street as his family disappears into the shadows, shoulders shaking with silent tears, for they will be safe from what will come and forever lost because of it.

An hour later Volasile finally graces the cobbled streets with his presence all dressed in finery and gleaming gems, each able to feed a family in this sector for weeks. Four guards follow as she suspected. Not even a fair fight. Fen’Lin pulls the great wolf’s mask over her head and climbs down. With her invisibility spell they do not notice her slip through the door just before it closes behind them.

“Lord Volasile, it is an honor to have you in my home.”

“My dear Frelen, I wish it could be under better circumstances.” The noble Elvhen sits and brings his hands together. “You owe me a great deal.”

“I have done all I can to pay my debts. But you…” Frelen glances at the two guards from yesterday. “Certain incidents are making it impossible for me to succeed. If you would only let me-”

“Are you suggesting that I am unfair? Me, who came to you in an hour of need and graciously bestowed mercy?”

“They destroyed all my work!”

“I have heard of no such thing. Find me one person willing to testify to that fact and I will wipe away all of your debts.” 

Everyone in the room knows it would be a futile endeavor for there is no one willing to face off against this shark when the water is nothing but red. Frelen bows his head.

“Well, well, what are we to do then? I could take your hands but then who would we have in this wonderful city to create such beautiful art?” Volasile turns to the man at his side. “Do you need feet to make glass?” 

“There are pedals, I’ve heard. I doubt one needs their ears.”

“I will settle for something else in exchange for the interest you have accumulated.” Volasile leans back in his chair and gestures to the men closest to the door. There is a gasp as Frelen’s family is dragged through it by three more guards. Seems they did not escape soon enough. Tears cut down through dirt and blood on the wife’s face while the son struggles against the grasp holding him.

“Papa!” he shouts and electric anger races through Fen’Lin’s veins.

“Your son looks like a strapping young lad. I could make good use of him.” 

Frelen leaps to his feet, hands held out as if in prayer. “My lord, I will work harder. I will have your coin, I promise. I-”

“And your wife is a pretty little thing. I know of someone who would pay well for her services, but we should make sure of her worth first. Cophar, bring her to me.”

“No! Please, I beg you!”

“Enough!” In a cyclone of sparks and fire, Fen’Lin drops her spell and emerges amongst their ranks. “You are not taking anyone.”

Weapons are drawn all around the room but do not strike out immediately. She carries none of her own that can be seen and her headdress has even the most stalwart pausing at first. It is why she wears it, although not the only reason. “What is this?” Volasile demands.

“You said if there was one who would vouch for Frelen’s claims you would wipe away his debt. I was there. I saw your thugs destroy his work. Now, I do believe that means we are done here. You are an elf that keeps his word, are you not?”

He regards her with scrutiny and weariness, but very little fear. She will change that soon enough. “Indeed. Despite my curiosity you have the air of someone who causes too much trouble. Remove her.”

She turns to the boy. “Close your eyes.”

And then she is movement, daggers drawn and flashing with fire that makes blood sizzle as she slashes through the Elvhen. They are taller, sturdier, but she has learned how to find the cracks in their armor, to be faster than the spells that leave their lips or the reach of their weapons. She is no weak child to prey upon. With barely a thought she blasts energy at the last two guards and hurls them against the far wall where they crumple and do not get up again.

Volasile hasn’t moved from his chair and now there is alarm in his eyes as she stands triumphant before him on a floor slowly turning red. She flicks a dagger through the air and laughs as he jumps and the cast away blood splatters across his legs. “You have no idea the amount of trouble I aim to cause.”

“What…what do you-”

“You, however, will no longer bother the Elven with your insatiable greed. You will even truly help them once. Do you want to know how?” She leans forward, bracketing his body between her arms, and the fear she can smell makes her bare fangs.

“How?”

“By sending a message.”

* * *

Something worse has happened. He can see it in the way Abelas glares at the message in hand, how Merrill chews upon her nails. He knows it is true as Veranna meets his gaze with the promise of violence curling up her lips. The former huntress may have lost some of her bite, but hers is a thirst that cannot be completely quenched.

“Report?” Fen’Harel asks as he comes to stand in front of the wide council table. 

“There has been an incident in Halamshiral,” Abelas announces. “Lord Volasile was murdered two days ago by an organization calling themselves the Red Knights.” 

“Why Volasile?” 

“Early investigations into his records indicate he may have been extorting several Dalish families and businesses. It seems a case of revenge, but I would not call it something as simple as that. Apparently they tied him up in the main square and shoved his own gold down his throat until he choked.” 

“Oh my, how awful,” Merrill comments.

The former sentinel glances up at her. “Do you really think so? It was done by your people.”

“They do not speak for all, certainly not me. How many times must I tell you?”

“Until I believe it. There is more. Witnesses speak of someone wearing a wolf’s head leading their forces and calling themselves Fen’Lin.” Abelas drops the paper in hand onto the table and an unblinking eye stares at Fen’Harel again. “And this was placed upon his chest. It was  _her_  symbol, was it not?”

Merrill gasps. “The Inquisitor! But, she can’t be…can she?”

It has been the constant question on Fen’Harel’s mind since seeing the markings days ago. “Has there been any unusual activity from the borders?” 

“Not that I know of,” Veranna answers. “Only a few pathetic shems trying to gain entrance, as usual. If it is her why use a false name but that symbol? It doesn’t make much sense.”

“It is not her,” Fen’Harel says.

“Can you be sure? After all, the body-”

“Many know of the Inquisition’s deeds. This is nothing more than a calculated move to garner support with sentimentality by these so called knights. Although, I suspect, it was done to attract my attention and to provide some insight towards their intentions as well. The Inquisition sought to save the world by bringing justice upon a dangerous enemy.”

“And we are the new enemy.” They were always the enemy, a fact discovered too late by most of the Thedas.

Veranna lets out a snort. “Fen’Lin. A little dramatic, don’t you think? Send me to Halamshiral. I shall hunt this Blood Wolf down and paint the streets red with her.”

“She is but part of the larger problem. This organization must be dealt with before their agenda can take root. Merrill, you will go for now. Speak to the elders and nobles of the city to uncover what they may know.”

“Yes, Fen’Harel.”

He gives Veranna instructions to see personally to the borders, especially those of former Ferelden. It is impossible for any Inquisition members to enter their lands, but it is possible someone may be corresponding in some fashion. Abelas he tasks with further investigating Volasile’s holdings. A cruel death to be sure yet he does not approve of what he has heard of the lord either. 

Despite his words, when he is alone within his quarters Fen’Harel seeks her out in the Fade. There are thousands and thousands of dreams floating through the ether, small and large, colorful or dripping with blackness. He would know hers within a heartbeat, that bright, amber color that draws one in with scents of sandalwood and cream. It has been years but he would not forget, can never forget. Fen’Harel sleeps the whole day through, waiting, searching, but she does not come. She is not there.

It is foolish to even consider it, but a tiny seed of doubt has been planted in his mind. Perhaps she has found a way to hide herself from his prying gaze for there has only been one clever enough to thwart his plans with any success. His thoughts of her twist the Fade around him, forming it into a memory. The initial instinct is to lash out and rend it apart before it forms, but he pauses, chest full of things he has not known for years, and for the first time in many years Fen’Harel lets himself dream of her.

He watches through the wolf’s eyes as Keela approaches a massive demon. It shrieks beneath a still churning sky trying to settle as the Fade and the waking world finally blend together once again. Demons were inevitable but he prepared his people to deal with them as best they could. This one, however, he knew she would want to see to herself.

Keela stays far back while her companions combat Despair’s cold grip. Shields smash, spells sear, swords slice through slick ice. It is a dance he remembers well as one of the Inquisitor’s chosen few and he is not lost to the meaning of this location either. It is where they freed Wisdom all those years ago on the banks of the Exalted Plains and he knows it was chosen deliberately. It’s why he thinks she hesitates now, burning power barely bigger than candle flame in her palm. He is not the only one haunted by the past.

When Despair lets out a wail as it readies to strike a fallen friend, Keela’s fire finally bursts to life. He can feel the impact of it ripple through the air from even this distance as it coils around the demon like vines that won’t let go. Tearing down the Veil has made her stronger, made them all stronger, but there is something cold about her strength now, darker where once it was almost too brilliant to look upon. But fire is fire and Despair withers beneath it all the same.

What is left when the smoke clears is not dust and bones but a small, broken figure familiar in its big brimmed hat. Keela dismisses her people and when they are gone Fen’Harel sneaks closer until he can hear her voice.

She drops to her knees, her billowing cape hiding both of them for a moment. “Cole, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not. I’m me again.” She bows her head forward at that and he feels it too, the pain from words spoken a lifetime ago by another who couldn’t be saved. “That was the wrong thing to say. I can’t…it’s too hard to find the right. A needle in a pile of needles. All you get is bloody fingers. I want to help but there’s too much pain.  _Too much too much too much._  I can’t help anymore.”

“I know.”

“Please, before I turn back. I don’t want to hurt. I can’t!” 

She takes a deep breath and lift her arms, fingers flesh and false shaking. Cole glances beyond Keela to where Fen’Harel approaches and the spirit appears unsurprised to see him. For a moment his eyes are that soft, gentle blue that speaks of understanding before they turn to the steel he used to slice through the undeserving.

“Show him. He doesn’t deserve it, but it might help. Someday.” And then he whispers something that Fen’Harel cannot hear but makes Keela’s shoulders jerk and releases a disbelieving noise from her throat. “Goodbye, friend.”

“Goodbye, Cole.” He turns his face up towards the sun with a warm smile as he drifts apart under her magic. Fen’Harel can feel the Fade accepting back its wayward spirit, taking the broken pieces and already planting them into something new, but it will never be the same. For what became of Cole at the end it is perhaps a blessing.

Fen’Harel stops a few feet away from her and shifts into his mortal form. She does not turn or move and only gazes out into the river as it continues its endless journey. He does not expect her to speak to him ever again, does not believe he deserves it. It is enough to see her alive after the fall and to know Cole is at peace, but he will not part without showing some gratitude for what she has done. 

“Thank you. My presence would have only made it worse for him.”

Her reply is hard to hear above the river’s song. “You did it. You really did it. Even until the last second I thought, I hoped-” She shakes her head. “Cole, Cassandra, Sera, Rylen. I don’t even know about the others. You’ve taken countless lives, the trust of all your friends. Cities and clans, kingdoms and history. You’ve taken my whole world. You’ve taken everything that there is. Are you satisfied now, Dread Wolf?”

“It is done.” He glances up into the shimmering sky, of Elvhenan renewed, but it does not feel like a victory. 

“And now you have your perfect world.”

“No, I do not.” 

She turns her head to find him and his heart pauses as it always does in seeing those golden eyes. They are not as unyielding as he remembers, the edges tarnished by all she has endured from a world torn asunder. From him. “No, I guess you don’t.”

“Help me restore order, as I have asked,” he says before he can stop himself, but if there is one that can bring peace to a shattered world it is one who has already proven capable of bringing another together again. “The others will need your guidance. I did what I could to ensure the survival of many yet they will not heed me. You know this.”

Keela gives a cold laugh as she tries to rise back up to her feet. It seems a struggle, no doubt weighed down by her grief, but he doesn’t move forward to help her. His hands clench at his sides for he knows his touch is unwanted. Unworthy.

“And do you think they will listen to the Dread Wolf’s whore? I failed them all. I could not stop you and I could not kill you even when I had the chance. That final night, I…I had a knife to your throat when you were sleeping but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. I doomed my world just as much as you did.”

He remembers. He is awake, wondering what she will do as she hovers above him. There is a spell protecting him from the sharp edge if she tries, but she only sighs, falls back into the bed, and he is not relieved. They should never have come to such bitter ends.

“Why did you stop?” It is a question on his mind ever since. 

Keela looks away, bites her lip. He can see the fight within her eyes, the hesitation, and it hurts him as much as the exhaustion on her shoulders. She is vibrant, bold, and he has made her into something less. When she has made her decision she doesn’t quite look him in the eye as she pushes back her cape and reveals a shirt stretched over swelling skin beneath.

He has turned the world over, twice, but only now does it feel like it shifts underfoot. Her hand moves across her stomach, slow and gentle, and it is a sight more beautiful than the pieces of Arlathan floating above their heads could ever hope to be. This is what he wants, the dream he has wanted for himself but could never have. He feels like falling to his knees, to know it is right within reach but now forever beyond him.

She glances at him, sorrow and resignation fading the glow of her eyes, and he is nothing but  _regret_. “Will you take this from me too?”

“No!” The word rips from his throat and this time he cannot stop himself from striding forward. “Keela, no.”

A hand reaches out to rest against his chest and he wishes he could feel her warmth. Every part of him wants to hold her in turn, to feel the life growing inside, to be somewhere a hundred choices ago. 

“Cole told me before, before he…it’s a girl.” 

Keela smiles, a shadow of something once brilliant, and he knows he has lost more than he will ever gain. She moves away, the one to leave this time, and although he cannot feel the touch of her hand he feels its cold absence. He knows that he will never likely see her again, never see this child, _their daughter_ , born and grow, to assist with first steps and first lessons, but he can make sure this world is truly something beautiful for her. For them.

“Wait.” He reaches into a satchel at his side and pulls a familiar necklace from it. It glows bright blue as he passes over the smoothed surface and the spell sifts in to replace empty marrow. “I have imbued it with magic. Should you ever require aid, speak my name while holding it and I will come. From this day forward my people will trouble you no further and I will do all that I can to see all of the people flourish in the world remade. You have my word.” 

“And which name would that be?”

“The one which will forever belong to you. Please,” he adds when she remains still. With a sigh she returns to grab hold of the jawbone. Fingers brush, eyes hold onto one another, and in that moment he would trade this world for the one standing before him if he could. She does not linger long after, pausing to speak the last words he hears from her lips.

“Your promises are ashes in my mouth, Fen’Harel.” 

He wakes to the midday sun shining with body heavy from the weight of memory as he drags himself from the bed. There were no answers to be found in his dreams, only things he has always known and never could escape. But even as a sharp pain squeezes his ribs he is also gently touched by the visions of the experience. He had almost forgotten just how beautiful she was.

Fen’Harel means to make for the washroom to chase away his slumber with a splash of water when something catches his gaze. A space has been cleared on his desk where only a single folded piece of paper now sits and his feet change direction. He knows the quality of the paper, the soft but sturdy type made for drawings, and there is something sketched upon it as he unfurls it but for a moment he cannot comprehend.

A rift crackles and roars above broken mortar and stained snow with two elves standing defiant before it. _Quickly, before more come through!_ His fingers around her wrist as he lifts the mark up into the air and the world shifts – a fact he later attributes to her more than the magic coursing through her hand. In his memory he remembers catching Keela’s expression in the corner of his eye, afraid yet curious, determined, but in the drawing she is not looking up at the cracked sky. She looks behind her, straight through him and smiling, and the paper trembles in his grasp.


	3. Envy

Fen’Lin keeps no throne but they begin to fall before her all the same. It is the news Merrill brings back with her a week later, face drawn with weariness and a small amount of annoyance.

“I heard the rumors that she welcomes the Elven to come and tell her injustices so she may see them righted, but she has no court it seems. Moves from day to day, hour to hour, all very secretive. I don’t know how people find her. The city is in quite an uproar with demonstrations in the streets by Red Knights wearing masks. They’re quite scary looking, Orlesian I think.”

“What of their leaders? This Fen’Lin cannot work alone.”

“I didn’t see her or anyone that looked important other than one person we do know.” Merrill leans forward as if it is a secret even though they are the only two outside in the gardens at the moment. “Briala is one of them.”

“Unsurprising, but it is good to have confirmation.”

“I don’t know how much more snooping I can do. She will have told them about me, if they don’t already know. Most people do. They call me Fen’Harel’s pet Dalish, after all.” She shrugs, smiling, but he can see the sadness in the gesture. “This is not the first time people have hated me for my beliefs. I should be used to it. It’s only...I forgot how lonely it was. Back in Kirkwall, with Hawke and everyone I-oh, look at me babbling on. I’m sorry.” 

“Visit our noble Elven of this city and uncover what you can. I would know how far this affliction may spread.”

“As you wish.”

He spends a few more minutes among the flowers and vines once Merrill departs and is drawn to the edge overlooking the Waking Sea. A few ships rest at port while others drift across the waters with sails puffed out in an accommodating breeze. He watches a curious spirit, massive in size and shining in bright colors, dip beneath the surface and rise again, its low rumbling pleasure heard even from this distance.

There is a storm on the far horizon, dark clouds sporadically lit with dazzling lightning that catches on currents of magic and Fade. If he forgets recent history, it is like he is back before the great fall, when time and death were of little import, when the world was only limited by one’s creativity, when everything was new and shared by spirit born and earth born. But he cannot forget.

“Lord Fen’Harel?” A timid servant stands behind him, dark lines of Falon’Din across his face. “Lord Abelas sent me to fetch you. There is something he wishes you to see in the upper markets. It seems a matter of some urgency.”

“Lead the way.”

It has been many months since he has walked through his own city. He sees it in the way citizens stop and glance at their ruler, how the bustling market grows quiet around him. Fen’Harel pays little attention the throngs, hands held behind his back and chin tipped up, but in the shadows where he reaches their meeting point his shoulders droop just so, brows coming together for a moment as if he has carried a great weight. If Abelas notices he gives no inclination and Fen’Harel is once again glad for his discretion.

“One of my scouts discovered this an hour ago. I have kept it sectioned off since.”

“What is it?”

Abelas motions around the corner. “Decide for yourself.”

He is not sure what he expects to find but braces himself for blood spread across cobbles, for destruction and ruin. It is nothing so macabre and yet the sight makes his own blood go cold and ravages his mind. Across a grey wall another drawing spreads and paints bright a moment not forgotten. The Breach looms high in the sky above, crackling green and black, while he embraces Keela beneath its light and falling flakes of snow.

He holds onto more than just her hand this time but the desperation is still there, made even stronger by the desire to feel and live when everything around him is nothing but a faded dream and she, she is a lighthouse burning bright across a dark harbor. The artist has captured well the atmosphere of the moment as they held on tightly to this glimpse of truth within all the lies and he can almost hear the way her pulse races in time with his own.

Beside them a sentence is written in red paint and he feels it slash across his heart, feels the folded note he could not burn away nor reveal weigh heavy in his pocket like the mass of all his mistakes. _You change everything,_ it reads, taunting with every letter stroked. Someone has snuck into his suite, into his city, into his memories, and is waging war with paint and brush. Looking at this newest offering, however, it seems more like a challenge.

“Are you positive it is not her?” Abelas asks quietly, influenced no doubt by the magic of this moment as well and Fen’Harel does not answer, cannot answer, for in this old world made new where everything is known and familiar he is unsure of what is before him.

He leaves Abelas with instructions on removing the artwork and retreats to his rooms high in the clouds and away from the gaze of his people. He untwists the wolf’s mantel from around him, lets gauntlets fall to the floor in loud disagreement, shrugs from metal plating and heavy ornaments, peels himself out of armored leggings. It is an outfit worn for so many years, something he considered a second skin in the days of Elvhenan. He remembers how it bit and chaffed, how it seemed ten sizes too small and wrong when he adorned it once more to continue his plans. 

Fen’Harel had grown into something else, into _hers_ , and it was a painful thing to shed that skin for another again.

Free of his clothes he sits on the edge of the bed and gazes down at the parchment in hand. The artwork is beginning to chip and smudge across the creases where it has been folded numerous times already. He will have to tell them of it eventually for it is a clue to this mysterious Fen’Lin, but for now he cannot escape Keela’s eyes as they follow him wherever he goes. He should storm into Halamshiral and burn out this resistance, but he falls back into the bed ensnared by the branches of her vallaslin. He needs to tend to his world, but instead Fen’Harel sleeps and dreams of her again.

A memory from a year after leaving the Inquisition forms around him into the marbled floors and gilded halls of the Winter Palace. He has come to finally collect the eluvians from Briala. Although she has used them well they were never hers to own. There is another reason he has chosen this night for the task, however, and it has nothing to do with his glorious purpose. He stands within shadows of the small garden, hidden from most inside his servant’s clothing and mask, and watches the Inquisitor enter. 

Keela comes to sit on the edge of the fountain and brings her fingers across a rippling surface. She is radiant wearing a vibrant gown of blue velvet cut close to her body and a shimmering, sheer cap encrusted with glistening gems. Head held high, fluid grace as regal as the gold and sapphire circlet placed atop her hair, and Fen’Harel smiles even as his heart aches. He has heard of her skilled maneuvers across the ballroom tonight and swells with a selfish pride he no longer deserves. 

She says something he cannot hear at this distance and turns to the man behind her. Fen’Harel has treated the former Knight-Captain with care throughout the night for his eyes constantly scan the area for any threats to his charge. It has been a few months since he was made Keela’s close bodyguard and Rylen’s protective presence is comforting, but Fen’Harel cannot forget the other reports of just how close the man often comes to the Inquisitor these days.  

He shouldn’t risk moving nearer but he longs to hear her voice again outside of the Fade. He grabs an empty tray and skirts around towards the entrance at the same time Keela stands to face her chaperone.

“…will not hesitate to step between me and a sword?” For a brief moment, he  closes his eyes as her cadence crashes over him in consuming waves. 

“It would be an honor,” is Rylen’s response and he scoffs, smirking to himself at the foolish sentiment. The shemlen might have taken his place beside her, but he does not know her well it seems.

“Yes, to sacrifice yourself for the blessed Herald of Andraste, savior of Thedas. Inquisitor, First Thaw, Basalit-an. What a wonderful honor indeed.” As Fen’Harel predicted, Keela’s words are filled with frustrated fury, but there is a cold bitterness to them that turns the ache in his heart to something with teeth. 

The feeling grows as he watches Rylen reach out to hold her arm in a gentle touch. It is a barely noticed gesture in the dark, but the action speaks volumes in this place where even a cough can be an act of war. 

“I would die for _you_ , Keela.”

It should be him touching her skin, him making declarations of adoration, him causing this bloom of beautiful hope across her face now. The impassioned words shake Keela’s solid defenses and he can see her struggling to remain strong when all she wants to do is crumble. In the end she takes a step forward and smiles. It is just a small thing, but it is true and wonderful, as rare and treasured as a cactus rose that blooms only once a year.

And it was his once. It was his, she was his, and now there is another who basks in her glow.

“Come. Dance with me before the band stops playing.”

His gasp is drowned out by Keela’s as they both startle, shocked by Rylen’s words. She looks stricken, a hand clasped tight around her throat as if she can strangle the emotions warring over her features and Fen’Harel feels them swarm relentless within.

“Are you all right?”

She moves away with the guards around her heart reformed. “Yes. I am sorry, but I do not feel much like dancing anymore. I would say my farewells and retire.”

"Wait." Rylen grabs her elbow to stop her and there is nothing subtle about the motion now.

"Let go, they will see."

"Hang them all. What's wrong?" Her silence must tell him all he needs to know. “It’s something to do with him, I’d wager?”

“And if it is?”

“Still doesn’t change a thing about how I feel about you if that’s what you mean." 

Keela lets out a heavy sigh at that. “You are entirely too stubborn, Ser Rylen.”

“Pot calling the kettle black with that one, don’t you think?” The pair grow ever closer and with each passing glance and coy word the wretched, twisted thing inside Fen’Harel grows sharper. 

The tension across Keela’s shoulders has lessened, the metal of her mouth melting to allow mirth again. “There were many others who could have caught my eye tonight. Lord Denout’s son was quite charming.”

Rylen groans. “Maker, anything but an Orlesian.”

“And what does a mere soldier from Starkhaven have to offer me?”

He leans in, saying something too quiet for Fen’Harel to hear, though he cannot escape the way Keela’s eyes flash, the way she bites into her lip with cheeks flushing not from embarrassment but desire. He bears all this but is tortured by what comes next as her features soften, for he knows the look she now gives beneath starlight and whispered words. He saw it under snow and above the mountains, held it close when he was too weak to deny it, shattered it when he finally let go. 

It is love and it is no longer for him.

With a growl, Fen’Harel tears at the dream and follows the pieces as they drift away into oblivion.

* * *

 

Fen’Lin picks at paint under her fingernails as Reiveth rattles on. They have amassed quite a number of petitioners since their grand display of judgement against Lord Volasile and while they would like to help every Dalish, it is impossible to right every wrong under Elvhen rule at once. It doesn’t take her long to notice the trend, or the bank accounts, of all the ones he puts forth for consideration.

“There’s a noble in-”

She throws a paper across the table. “I’m doing this one.”

With a scowl, Reiveth picks up the assignment and his displeasure only grows the more words read. “This is hardly serious. What would be the benefit?”

“The benefit? To helping people?”

Reiveth scoffs like a teacher with a stubborn student. “An enterprise of this nature requires strong allies and many resources. There is a cost to revolution, my dear. If we are to make our mark, we much choose what will help the most.”

“I have no interests in playing politics. I have only one goal and I will pay the cost for it. And you,” she steps closer, static crackling between her fingers. “I am not your ‘dear’ anything. Do you need a reminder of who I am?”

“Peace.” Nevaelathsan’s soft yet strong voice cuts through their conflict. “We have a long road ahead of us and will get no where arguing at every crossroad. Only united will we succeed against such forces.”

“She knows quite well that we will crumble without continued support,” Briala adds before turning to her. “And you know Reiveth speaks the truth all the same. We cannot do this alone.”

Fen’Lin stands in silence for a few moments, fighting the rolling anger down. They are right, of course, but she has long been tired of these games. With a sigh she relents. “I will defer to your expertise on most matters and I am not suggesting we take coppers instead of gold, but I must be a symbol for all.”

“We do not disagree. If you believe this will make a difference then please proceed. We respect your decisions and insight. We only ask that you tend quickly to this matter and let us decide upon another in your absence, if that is agreeable?” Nevaelathsan proposes.

It will have to do. 

She waits until the night before the grand opening. The lights still flicker in the studio as an Elvhen walks with a clipboard in hand and an eye for perfection as they shift sculptures and dust paintings. It is too easy a thing to sneak inside. The Elvhen are comfortable still with their ideas of safety and superiority, their noses held too high to see what is festering beneath them. Fen’Lin hovers in the shadows until the owner picks up a rather delicate looking ceramic statue.

“Be careful with that.”

The man gasps, fumbles with the art, but to her great disappointment does not let it shatter to the floor. “I could have dropped it! What are you doing trying to-”

The dismay upon his face when she steps into the light in her full regalia brings a smile back to her face. “What does it matter? It is not yours, after all.”

“You’re-you’re that troublemaker. Fen...Fen...”

“Fen’Lin.” She steps closer, backing him up towards a wall. “Don’t worry, you are likely never to forget it after tonight. I am something of an artist myself. Paintings only, I’m afraid. I don’t have such a wide variety of skills like the artist behind all this. I wish there was time for other pursuits, but I have my hands full at the moment.”

“What do you want?”

“The truth,” she says as she leans in. “Is any of this art yours?”

“Of course it is!”

Fen’Lin slams her hand down and through the painting next to his head, fire flaring for a brief moment between her fingers. “The truth, I said, or the next time it will be your skull. Did you create all this?”

The man swallows before shaking his head. “No. It is my assistant’s.”

“Who will receive nothing in return for all her efforts.”

“We have an arrangement!”

“Of which she has had very little say, pressed with more urgent matters of feeding her family. She told me you went to the same schools, had the same instructors. You were friends but instead of helping her succeed, you’re extorting her. Why?”

His jaw shuts soundly, unwilling to answer the question even in the face of her violence, but it does not matter. She knows what lies beyond his weak stare, has seen it enough times in the eyes of her compatriots as they glance at the glistening world of possibilities right outside their reach. “Let me guess. Because she was always the one with more talent, more praise, and it burned a hole in your already blackened heart. When the moment came for opportunity you took it, took everything for your own. How very Elvhen of you.” 

She backs away and circles a podium nearby holding a statue twisting with branches and color. “You should not take what does not belong to you. A lesson you should teach your daughter. Olia, isn’t it?”

“H-how do you know this?”

Her eyes stay locked on his as she lifts her hand and sweeps away the piece of art, watches as he jumps when it crashes to the floor. With deliberate slowness she reaches into her satchel and pulls out something to put in its place. It is a simple doll, rows of golden hair and sapphire gems for eyes, nothing as grand as the items around them, but something very treasured to a certain, little Elvhen girl.

“What have you done to my child?” he demands, voice rising with anger and panic once his shock passes.

“Nothing, and I will do nothing if you follow my directions. You will give Ceras the credit she is due. When these doors open tomorrow night, it will be her name upon the artwork, her pockets that fill with gold, and when it is done you will leave this studio to her and this city behind and never speak of this to anyone. Ever.”

He shakes his head. “I will be ruined.”

“But you will be alive.” She pats the soft threads of the doll’s head. “Do not bereft your daughter of her favorite doll and her only father. So, what is your decision?”

They watch each other, gauge one another’s intent and purpose, and whatever he finds in her expression defeats his. “I accept.”

He slumps back against the wall and another victory scratches a mark inside her heart and, although it bleeds with the shame and disgust on his face, it is another battle won that will bring her closer to her goal, to _him_ , and she will do whatever it takes toget her there. “Pleasure doing business with you.”


	4. Apathy

There was no body to bury, but there is a grave.

A month passes and the flames of rebellion do not dim. They grow, unconcerned with every Arbitrator sent to keep the peace, fueled by every action Fen’Lin makes. News spreads across Elvhenan like a thick smoke, of this wolf who fights for the freedom of her people, and the irony of it is not lost upon Fen’Harel. A point he is sure she meant to make before she even donned the name and the mask. While Halamshiral races towards its flash point, he slips through eluvian after eluvian away from all the turmoil to someplace quiet and calm. There are paths in the Crossroads that only he knows, places beyond Elvhenan restored that are protected by his magic. Skyhold is one, the oasis of the west another, and this place.

The barrier washes over his skin as he steps into the tunnel leading towards the grove. It has not changed in the years since he was last here, untouched by the ravages of war and the reshaping of the world. The great elk statues still lift proud heads, green life still grows around gentle pools fed by slow waters, and in the middle rises a marble statue placed by his shuddering hands.

A bowl at the top holds a forever flame, red and gold swirling together like the power in her palm, the light of her eyes. There are other statues and memorials to the former Inquisitor throughout Thedas. To his knowledge, the one within the Winter Palace still stands although the one outside his own city has been chipped away over the many years. This one before him was not created to honor the Inquisitor, however. It is for her, the flesh and blood elf that loved warm bread and bemoaned the broken bump of her nose. Who hated the cold and kissed him with a fire that made him alive.

It is for his heart.

Fen’Harel rests against the cool slab and gazes out towards the persistent waterfalls. It is an easy thing to recall the moments spent together here - its initial discovery, the stolen holidays they managed to obtain somewhere in between the constant chaos. The final time. He had not meant to turn their cherished refuge into a bitter place but if there is one thing to be said of Fen’Harel’s legacy it is how much ruin was created with the best intentions.

There is no regretting it now, however. He cannot remember how. These things are buried beneath time and loss. It is why he clutches close the drawing of their first meeting, keeps the sight of the Inquisition’s symbol in the forefront of his thoughts, and refuses to scrub the kiss beneath the Breach from him mind even as servants wash it from the wall. It is why he is here, in a place so full of feeling, when he has become such an empty thing. He wants to remember, to chase after this even if it turns on him with teeth, but it is not the only reason he is here.

Her being is etched into the glade as deeply as her name is written upon the stone behind him. If he is to find her, if she can be found at all, it will be in places such as this where her emotions of fear, of love, of anger, are burned into the very air. His councilors may be underwhelmed by his current methods, but he was a Dreamer long before anything else and if he must face this rebellion as a god it will be with blood and another breaking. Their fledgling world may not survive it. He may not survive it.

Eyes close and he falls into the Fade between one breath and the next. The memories are already formed around him, blending together and building upon one another so it is difficult to tear them apart. He watches Keela and himself battle a wyvern at the same time they stand together within the cool water, bare and breathless beneath a sunrise. He hears himself tell her she is free while she laughs from the mud stuck to his feet and it _aches_ , this absence where something heavy once rested.

He climbs up and away from the glade and reaches further into the Beyond, chasing at the strings of her woven through the fabric like glistening spiderwebs catching in light. There are hundreds of connections still lasting through the years, stretching across Thedas and even further. Hundreds of memories so laden with emotion that time and catastrophe have only dimmed them somewhat. Though parts of Keela drift through eternity, she is nowhere to be found.

It is a continuing realization that fills him with shades of disappointment and relief. There is the desire to see her again, to be touched by the blazing fire of her even if it consumes him, but it would only hurt her to see what he has made of what he swore to save. For Fen’Harel made another promise he could not keep and it shames him even more to know she would not be surprised.

He falls into the moment the decision was made. Almost five years have passed since the destruction of the Veil and the world is catching its breath again. Pain still lingers with every inhale, but they are full and hopeful and closer to being healed. Although he assumes it will not be easy, the added burden of assisting the other races makes progress slow. Everything around Elvhenan is still in chaos. The elves are meant for this new world while the others struggle like sprouts buried beneath deep snow. He does what he can by inviting the shemlen, the children of the stone, even the remaining qunari into the fold of their lands and sends his people outward to heal the hurts, but there is quarreling and anger across every city, sentries who never return. 

There is no saving himself, he knows. There is only the knowledge that one little girl is growing up without a father and this is what he can give her, give them both. He will keep his word and perhaps in doing so, keep some of his heart.

Until the day comes when it no longer matters.

“M-my Lord Fen’Harel?”

He stands upon his balcony when a messenger calls out. There are two of them, dressed in plain clothes and wearing no badges, and he knows at once they are agents placed to monitor Keela. He promised he would never let his people interfere in her life again, but in good conscious could not abandon her completely. It is a good lie. The truth is that news of her, of _them_ , is a poultice against weeping wounds. At the same time he recognizes who is approaching he also sees the way they shift from his gaze, the red sheen of their eyes. 

“We…we have news, my lord.” A hand holds out a crinkled scroll, but he does not take it. He cannot take it. After a moment, the lead scout drops their arm and inhales a deep breath. “As we reported earlier, Lavellan was moving towards what remains of Redcliffe. It seems she was there to meet with old acquaintances. We witnessed former Commander Rutherford and Ambassador Briala enter the building, the others saw Lady Montilyet and Teryn Cousland. An hour or so later Briala came outside to speak with one of her agents and then…” 

The reporter stalls, driven to silence until their partner’s hold comes to rest on a shoulder, squeezing with reassurance, and the fallen god before them feels something tighten inside.

“There was-there was an explosion. Much of the building was destroyed and the fires…we could not approach for a long time. I-” Eyes lift and Fen’Harel resists the urge to turn everything to stone around him so that he will not have to hear what will come next. “Lavellan…she is dead.”

He does not know how long they stand there, if the agent speaks again or if days pass without words. There is only this rush of noise building and surging within his mind, the sound of a thousand moments gone and thousands that never will now. There is grief at the edges, a sharp knife caught in the dark, but for the moment all he can feel is an intense disbelief. Of all possible things, she could not be killed by _fire_. 

“And the child?”

The elf breaks at that, chin quivering as tears course down their cheeks, and the knife finds its mark even before the words are spoken. “We didn’t think, we would’ve…next to her, there…there were-” he gestures wildly, as if the idea is incomprehensible. “B-bones-My lord, I’m so so-”

If there is more, Fen’Harel does not hear it as he rushes into the Fade. Such an easy thing to do now, to grasp it, change it, become it. All it took was a sacrifice that seems to have no end. The moment he enters he knows, _he knows_ , but he will not believe it. He sniffs and searches, calls out into the endless void. There is nothing but choking ash and silence in return. The god makes the rains pour down, covering the lands with his sorrows. The elf tears at his clothes and skin, knowing he will never touch hers again. The father mourns the loss of a child whose name he never knew. The agony of it all makes the wolf howl long and hard as it claws and shreds itself so it may never feel again. 

A day later, Fen’Harel emerges from the Fade straight backed and stone faced, and orders his people recalled from the foreign lands. A week later, he forces the other races from Elvhenan and into their own again. A month later, Fen’Harel and his council create a new barrier. It does not separate the Dreaming and the Waking this time, but the world of the elves from the others so none may enter, so none but his people will have his protection, whatever it is worth.

With his heart turned to stone, Fen’Harel turns his back on the rest of the world and lets it burn.

It is difficult to pull himself from these memories, especially here. They cling like overly stubborn ivy tangling around his limbs and he feels it now, a seedling of something growing inside his chest where only barren soil was. There is something else he missed, as well, noticed only when he moves to stand. Within the cracks of her grave is the edge of a parchment sticking out and with unsteady fingers does he reach and pull it free. 

As it unfurls he recognizes the lines of his mysterious artist and the moment captivated in simple charcoal. Wisdom drifts away on a steady breeze as he kneels into the harsh ground. The spirit’s face is upturned towards the sky, mouth touched with a smile.  _Now I must endure_ , he had said. Even though there was pain he remembers how Keela stood by his side, waited for his return on the steps of Skyhold soft and supportive and more than he thought possible. It was then he truly knew, accepted what he would try to deny. He loved her and it was no mistake.

The seed sprouts into a sapling, branches climbing through his ribs and reaching upwards. Hope blossoms inside, brushing against his heart and chipping away at the rock holding it hostage. For there was another whose blood he weaved into the making of the glade’s barrier, one other person who could pass into this sacred place without harm, and his hand rests upon her grave.

* * *

The crunch of the apple between her teeth is loud, but not loud enough to wake the unconscious form at her feet. She scowls even as sweetness fills her mouth and takes another bite before throwing the apple against his shoulder. With a jolt he wakes, jaws opening to scream or gasp, but no sound comes out. To the world he appears to be a common beggar - grime on the hand that comes up to wrap around his throat and wearing clothes that would never be considered clothing in any of the lush stores down a boulevard such as this one. To her he is a vulture who has watched the dying for too long. 

When he tries to rise and call out again she slips from the box she sits upon and into his line of sight. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to speak up. I didn’t quite catch that.”

He glances at her and she wishes she wore the wolf’s mask instead of her golden one so she could watch his eyes grow even larger, but she cannot cause a scene here. Not yet. There are more peace keepers out in force in Halamshiral, more notices with her visage posted around almost every corner, and her name only passes in whispers through the streets. She must wait until they shout it, until the rage of the Elven is greater than their fear.

“Look out there, Lord Nhilen. How many times have you passed this exact spot and never once cast your eyes upon the lowly lost in the shadows? How many times have you watched an Arbitrator take the hand of a Dalish desperate enough to steal food no noble would even dare touch? I know the proposal you’ve put forth. You want to rip down part of the Elven district. You’d like to put in a park instead. How very lovely. Where will they go, I wonder, when you destroy their homes?”

Fen’Lin crouches down by his side, grabbing onto his arm when he moves to scoot away. “You have never even been to that district. You’ve lived your whole life here pretending to be Elvhen and forgetting your own people. You do not know their struggles, their hopes, and it is a blessing, isn’t it? You do not want to know, do not want to see. Caring would make it real and you want to live in the dream.”

She reaches out for his chin and forces his eyes upon her. “Well, I’m going to make you look and perhaps you will reconsider your proposal. You may have noticed I put a spell upon your voice. You can try but removing it will not work. It will wear off on its own by sunrise tomorrow. I also have several agents across the square watching you. Try to flee and they will cut you down. However, I am not without kindness. If you can beg for thirty gold before time is up they will give you a potion to undo the spell.”

Fen’Lin grabs the fallen apple, covered in dirt and bruised, and places it in his hand. “I suggest you don’t squander this. It will likely be the only thing you eat for some time. Good luck, Lord Nhilen, and welcome to the world beneath the world.”

With a twist of her wrist her cloaking spell wraps around her form and she races through the city to the nearest eluvian unnoticed. She has little time to squander before the council will expect her back with a report. Glass shatters around her and for a moment she almost dares to remove her mask and feel its cool touch against her skin, but she keeps in on despite her invisibility. One never knows what types of things they may run into when magic threads through the very air.

She passes into the Crossroads and beyond several more mirrors before she finds herself within Vir Dirthara. The old library is no longer falling to rubble nor abandoned. Sections still float on lopsided strings, pieces broken and needing mending, and even though it will never be as great as it once was there is life slipping between the shelves again.

It takes her some time to travel to a more secluded part of the archives, somewhere still in need of much repair and mostly empty because of it. Quick feet fly up crumbling stairs before finally reaching their destination. There is no one occupying the space so for a moment she lets her eyes wander to the murals above. The muted oranges, the bright blues, the sharp lines. She knows them well. Did he spend much time here chasing after wisdom, or did he spend it all painting and dreaming instead? How could such hopeful promise end with such blind pride?

A wisp of mana brushes up against hers before she hears the footsteps approaching. With a sigh she takes off her mask and drops her shield to face the elf drawing near. Here, with him, she can at last be herself if for a little while. Violet lines of Dirthamen cut across his sun kissed skin and around silvered eyes. Fen’Lin sees concern and relief in them briefly before his arms reach for her and pull. Instinct has her tensing, magic rushing up to tickle skin, but he only urges her into his embrace with gentle insistence.

“I have been worried for you. There have been far too many rumors and far too little facts.” His voice rolls with a breezy accent and as she presses her face into his chest, she tries to imagine the sweeping land of Antiva from where he lived for so long. She shouldn’t pause here, shouldn’t curl her fingers into his robes and listen to a steady heartbeat, but there is no denying how good it feels to be touched again with such care. The Blood Wolf has no need for soft things, but even she sometimes forgets there is a person beneath the symbol.

“Are you all right?”

With reluctance, she moves away to meet his gaze. “I am fine. You?”

“I have remained undiscovered and very few question a child of Dirthamen in such a place as this.”

“I don’t have much time. They are waiting for me. Things are going as expected only faster than we thought. Briala has uncovered something big, something I think will turn the tide in Halamshiral. Once it falls, the others will follow until only the capitol remains. Nevaelathsan has almost completed the eluvian as well. Fen’Harel is a fool for ever letting them live.” 

“Did you bring what I require?”

Her fingers dig into the secret pocket of her armor and pull out a small satchel to pass into his awaiting hand. “There is nothing more?”

“I have collected all the necessary ingredients save for one, the last. I need the blood of the Wolf.”

“I will have it for you soon. He will not be able to stay away for long now.”

“How can you be sure?”

She smiles, not with the promise of a predator but something mortal, wistful and fragile. “He has found the drawing in Crestwood.”

“I see. And you are truly set upon this path until its end?”

He still holds onto her, a loose touch around her elbow to give comfort, but there is something more in the way his thumb moves in a slow circle. She watches his light eyes darken as she wraps her fingers into his clothing again with more urgency this time, as she leans closer to smell the elfroot upon his breath. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

A moment trembles between them, heat rising to chase away the ache her missions make and replacing it with a different type. Now that she has been touched, she wants to feel again too. “I…I cannot,” he says even as his hands lifts to tangle in her hair.

“No, you shouldn’t,” she corrects as she presses her mouth into his full lips and forgets about false names, faded murals and empty promises, if only for a little while.


	5. Gluttony

The crowds part for the Lord of Arlathan, but they do not bow.

It has been some time since he has come down from his tower and walked among the lowly, even longer since he left his city. As predicted, not even two days later does Fen’Harel come to Halamshiral. She watches from a rooftop as he walks down a cluttered Elven street with Merrill and Veranna close behind. The Dalish elf keeps eyes on her people, shoulders trying to stay back despite the weight of the poverty around her, while the Elvhen huntress glances everywhere ready to strike at a moment’s notice. With her in the city, Fen’Lin will need to be extra cautious for what is to come. 

Fen’Harel and his council pause outside the glass maker’s shop. In the few days since his arrival they have already visited Lord Volasile’s former villa and the square where his body was found, traveled to the eastern warehouses where weapon shipments disappeared, listened to Lady Ladaina complain about the defacement of her famous gardens, consoled the victims of a riot in the Elvhen quarter that ended in fire and death. Fen’Lin and her Red Knights have been busy while he sits aloft and dreams of lost things, the Elven even more so as they pull upon their chains. It is with a sense of pride she notices that Lord Nhilen has not yet made his plight known, however. There may be hope for him yet.

Fen’Harel stands to the side as Merrill talks with Frelen and his family. There will be little they can reveal about her yet there are others in the throng that could point directly to the head of the rebellion. Not many, for they have been cautious, but it only takes one whisper in the wrong ear, one careless act of trust. Her faith in the people is bolstered by how they are reacting to Fen’Harel’s presence now - respectful yet devotion lined with suspicion and consideration. The Evanuris will always be looked upon with awe but he is not the only wolf that prowls the world anymore.

“Do you think anyone will talk?” Fen’Lin asks and turns to the figure crouched nearby.

Briala shakes her head. “Not right away. They will wait to see which one of us will give them the greater advantage. Now that he is here we must move quickly with our next target before the decisions begin to be made for us.”

“Are we ready for tonight?”

“Our agents within the estate are in position and I have secured two wagons. It is the best to be done on short notice. One will take the cargo to the orphanage as you requested while the other ferries our people outside of the city.”

“They are risking much by turning upon their master in his own house.”

“It took little convincing. The governor is known to show little mercy to his Elven servants if they displease him.”

“The poor elf. Who will clean his floors now?”

A quiet string of laughter escapes through Briala’s nose and Fen’Lin can recognize the dark flash of a strong memory inside her eyes. It is gone before she can dissect its reason. “And are you prepared for what will come? Something so important should not be rushed if-”

“This is not something that will be made easier with time, Briala. I am ready to face him.”

“You are right. However, it is often not the person we struggle with facing but the lost possibilities of what could have been.” There is a note of authority in her voice that speaks of experience on the matter. “I have heard of your...gifts to Fen’Harel. A bit more romantic than what I expected although certainly effective. I only hope you are keeping in mind what’s important. That you do not forget what he has taken from you, from us.”

Down below, Fen’Harel and the others leave the shopkeeper and continue upon the road. Seeing him strikes against something inside, something that has been long festering beneath the yoke of their tangled fates. He walks tall, unbent, like all the years and choices have not touched him somehow. So many things could have been different if the Dread Wolf had only yielded when it mattered. They could have been different.

She feels a great many things but lets the rage rise to the surface. “I have not forgotten, but he has. It will be no victory for me to destroy something so hollow that won’t even feel the knife’s edge. I want him to remember what it is to be mortal, what it is to hope and fear and _want_. And when his heart is full and ripe then I will claw it from his chest.”

Whatever Briala hears in her voice is enough to convince. “Then so shall our two wolves meet and the true battle begin.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

There are signs of revolution everywhere in Halamshiral yet little evidence leading him towards its source. Fen’Lin’s forces appear to be small, contained, careful. A valuable lesson learned by a veteran or advice well taken from one. Larger organizations are too easily corrupted and a rebellion rarely needs comprehensive battle plans and tactics. He knows from experience that sometimes all it needs is a push in the right direction, a small spark to ignite sifting powder.

“You discovered nothing of significance? They have made no demands?” asks Abelas, water dripping from his clothes onto the floor. The setting sky is clear above this city but the land must be grey and dark through whatever eluvian he used to enter the Crossroads and come here. 

“We will get nowhere asking nicely. A few hours under my persuasion and these Dalish will sing.” Veranna paces in front of the window like an excited cat catching sight of birds just outside.

Merrill sighs in response. “Yes, I’m sure that will really make the people trust us all the more. Halamshiral needs peace, not more nastiness.”

“It needs Fen’Lin’s head on a pike! We should smoke her out before our prey has a chance to become predator.”

“That will not be necessary,” he speaks up at last. “She will come to us.”

“How can you be sure?” Veranna asks.

He knows he must share his further findings and suspicions though the prospect of doing so fills him with hesitation. The pieces of art are intimate moments, each line drawn with his memories and Fen’Lin’s dedication, and with each one a new, fractured story is being told. A story linking past and present that he has yet to decipher. More than anything, however, he fears saying everything out loud may shatter this fragile hope building inside. 

In the end there is little choice but to tell them everything. “So it must be her then,” Veranna says once he is finished.

“Anyone could use a vial of her blood and a good book of spells to go beyond the barrier,” Merrill mentions. “It could be anyone.”

“And the scenes of the drawings? How do you account for that knowledge?” the huntress counters.

“All right, anyone that was in the Inquisition or close to it somehow most likely. It’s not as if their relationship was exactly secret. No offense.”

“Briala could supply useful information on her own and we do not know who is behind the masks of these other leaders,” Abelas adds. The former spy beneath the Orlesian empress proved a worthy opponent in her time, knowledge stretching as far as the eluvians she once controlled. Fen’Harel does not doubt she would have many secrets to share. 

“If it is Lavellan, or another former member of the Inquisition, bringing you here to face this Fen’Lin could be the bait for a meticulously planned trap.” Fen’Harel inclines his head at Abelas’ words and the sentinel gives a mirthless laugh. “One you fully intend to walk into.”

“Despite whatever foresight involved I believe this is merely the beginning. They will seek to see Elvhenan torn asunder and me unseated before claiming my life, if that is their ultimate goal. It will be the only course that could lead towards lasting change. Of course, their intentions may be more insidious in nature. We will not know until one can be found.”

“I suppose you would know how all of this works, Dread Wolf. It appears someone is playing by your rule book.” There is an old wound bleeding out with Veranna’s words. He sees it sometimes in the way his kin look at him and remember it was Fen’Harel who both saved and damned them long ago.

“Oh good. Then we know what to expect!” He does not share Merrill’s optimism. For if it is Keela, perhaps even someone that knew her well, the only thing he can expect is the unexpected. “Maybe we shouldn’t attend the banquet tonight.”

“No. We will proceed as normal and hope to catch the spider in its own web.” They discuss possible outcomes for tonight and preparations for the foreseeable future within Halamshiral before separating. As Merrill and Veranna depart, Abelas remains behind with intent clear upon his face.

“You have become distracted, Fen’Harel. I can see you are already married to the idea of it being her but I promise you, whatever this is, whoever she is, you can be certain no good will come of it no matter the strength of your desires.”

“I could not be swayed before. I will not be so again,” he replies with a conviction not wholly felt. Before she was alive. Even if she was not by his side the thought of her laughing, loving, living despite all possible odds, was enough to see him through. She would hate him, curse him for taking her world, but she would live in his. And now, now would he risk losing her again? Could he?

“Let us hope so or all we have built will crumble to ruin once more.” Abelas moves to leave the room but pauses when he passes, his next words spoken quietly. “There is one other who could be hiding under the Blood Wolf’s mask we have not discussed. It is as unlikely as Lavellan rising from the grave but...the child, she would be of age would she not? Perhaps you are searching for the wrong ghost.”

It is a thought that has not occurred to him and now planted within his mind sticks with insistent thorns. It has been a long time since he allowed himself to think of what else was lost upon that fateful day, of the innocent soul punished for the misdeeds of others and those who should have protected it. Fen’Harel has many sins to call his own, but it is this one that no amount of penance could ever grant him forgiveness. 

His first instinct is to travel into the Fade and continue his search but he does not know the texture and scent of the child’s dreams. Visiting her was something he forbid himself. Walking inside her slumber would only add more complications, more pain, and he has felt and caused enough. His eternal life has taught him many things and it was yellow eyes full of betrayal cementing that it is a kindness to be ignorant of what one does not possess. Even so, Fen’Lin should leave tracks in the Beyond bright and strong with her desires for no one wearing the wolf’s mantle dreams of things in paltry shades.

The venture will have to wait until later. For now he climbs into a carriage and crosses town with Merrill. It will be better this way, waiting until the dead of night when one cannot escape so easily from the threads of the Fade, but he is not looking forward to the pageantry awaiting him in the meantime. The governor of Halamshiral has called them to his mansion for an extravagant feast held in the Dread Wolf’s honor. He is glad, at least, not to be dragged into the halls of the Winter Palace. He suspects the memories there would seep out of the Dreaming and follow him like hungry hounds. 

As they walk up the expansive stairs, the main entrance swings wide to spew forth a plethora of elves. Elvhen in flamboyant attire and Dalish elves in muted colors standing behind their employers. Beside him, Merrill takes a bolstering breath and he cannot blame her for the precaution. An Elvhen in more extravagant robes than all the others swiftly approaches, arms outstretched, and Fen’Harel hardens his spine for what will come.

“My Lord, I bid you welcome to my estate,” Governor Thoressalan bows deep at the waist as another noble moves to join him. “We are honored to be your humble hosts for the evening. May I introduce my husband, Lokhen?”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Fen’Harel answers.

“Come, my chefs have prepared a twelve course meal to slate our hunger and curiosities.”

“Twelve courses?” Merrill repeats with her nose scrunched up as they walk into gleaming halls.

Thoressalan’s smile falters. “Is that not sufficient? I can assure what has been selected will rival the meals prepared in the capitol, but if-”

“It is more than acceptable,” Fen’Harel intervenes. “Please, lead the way.”  

He understands the displeasure on her face. They will never be able to consume such a large amount of food. It will be wasted, thrown into the sewers or burned away. Some Elvhen may even practice purging themselves to taste more of the feast while across the city Elven gnaw away on stale bread or starve. Such wasteful displays of wealth have plagued every society and it pains him now to see it as it always has, even more so in this world that was supposed to be better. 

“I recommend the duck,” Lokhen says as he waves a hand for the servants to open the silver polished doors before them. “It is a favored recipe.”

“Yes and the...” The governor’s words trail away as they step inside and look at the long table before them. There are beautiful plates and polished silverware, crystal containers and glasses shining in the light of a gleaming chandelier above, gems sewn into the very fabric of the elegant tablecloth. The aroma of cooked meat and something sweet swirls, beckoning mouths to water in anticipation. 

It is an elegant display and would rival any dinner across the land if not for an obvious fact- the table is bare of any food. There is not even a single crumb or drop of drink anywhere across the expanse, no decadent cream delights or savory soup sending curls of steam in the air. There are only empty plates and empty chairs, save for one.

At the head of the table sits a wolf waiting for her feast.

Red like the color of decaying leaves and drying death spread across the floor, the headdress so familiar to the one he once wore for a moment he is thrown back centuries. Fen’Harel’s movements are measured and slow as he approaches and so are hers as she rises from the table to greet him. The Dread Wolf takes in his newest challenger. It has to distinguish the figure beneath the long, black coat over matching leather armor, beneath the tuffs of fur wrapped around her legs and hips. A full silver gauntlet is strapped to her left arm, fingers ending in sharp claws. Everything about her speaks of danger, of a force barely contained.

When he stops a good distance away she tilts her head up to reveal more. Exposed skin is a brilliant, unnatural white, lips red and the paint dripping down the sides of her mouth like a beast victorious in the kill. He cannot tell if it is flesh underneath the gauntlet or something else, cannot recognize her for the mantel and the colors covering her, but he does know the yellow eyes placed inside the mask. When she smiles, something challenging and mischievous and _hers_ , there is no controlling the wild hope from exploding inside at the sight.

“Vhenan?” it escapes in a whisper, dragging through him and yanking all the air from his lungs.

Her smile widens, changes, white teeth growing and turning sharp, limbs shivering. In a flash of red and violence she transforms into the wolf she represents, unnatural in its massive height and rippling fur. In the next breath she is gone, leaping through a side door and out into the night, and the Dread Wolf can do nothing but give chase. 

He dives forward despite the protests calling and with four paws of his own lands on polished stone. Fen’Lin is already across the expansive grounds and shooting through the heavily ornate gates by the time he finds himself outside. He follows her deeper into the city through alleys and across squares, hurdling over walls and dashing across rooftops. His lungs burn with the exertion but the thought of that smile forces him forward. _It cannot be,_  his mind screams but his heart, oh his heart begs his feet to keep moving, to keep reaching.

Never does he grow close enough to catch this prey. She darts around corners as he approaches, goading him with quiet barks that sound suspiciously like laughter. The game seems to end in an empty courtyard within the Elvhen district. There is no flash of scarlet, no burning golden eyes peering through the darkness. It is silent and still save for the trickling waters of a fountain in the center. He approaches it slowly, ears swiveling and searching for sounds of ambush or attack, and his senses catch sight of something else instead.

Fen’Harel morphs back into his mortal form to inspect the item sitting on the fountain’s edge. A piece of parchment secured with twine wraps around a strange shape. He sends probing magic towards it first and only reaches out when no warnings scratch in the back of his mind. Quick fingers make quick work of the knot and still at what is revealed. 

It is a large perfume bottle topped with a diamond shaped stopper, barely a drop of amber liquid left crowded in a corner. Rather an unremarkable thing in its design, certainly less opulent than the crystal and marble of the fountain beside him, and yet it is miraculous all the same. For it is familiar, something that has been in his hands before, something that has survived the sundering of the world when its owner did not. It was a gift, a gift he gave to his heart when he thought he might keep her somehow.

He shifts his grip on it to open what can only be another drawing. It is of the night at the Winter Palace when Corypheus’ assassins threatened a tumultuous peace, but it is long after blood was spilled in the courtyard and plots discovered. They dance through a dream and the grand hall of Halamshiral as it was in the days of the Dales when magic floated in the air and trees arched above. He can see the way the spirits of the Fade crowd around her, resplendent in an emerald gown and glowing with her own light, and there is so much more he wants to show her besides what has been lost to her people. _Dance with me_  he said and has always wondered if she regretted taking his hand that night.

Gently, he places the paper into a pocket and turns his attention back towards the bottle. The memory of the perfume’s aroma has weakened over time, slipping through his grasp in dreams, and he cannot resist the temptation even if it clamps upon his lungs and never lets go again. With a final glance around the still vacant square, Fen’Harel uncorks the bottle and breathes in.

It is not vanilla and creme that drift into his nose, however. It is a potent and sharp scent, a chemical that stings instead of soothes. The inside of the container swirls with a putrid, grey smoke that flies up and around his face. He realizes too late it is a potion of some kind as he tries to cough the thick, choking substance from his lungs, the edges of his vision blurring until darkness swallows him whole. The last conscious thing he knows is the sound of glass shattering against hard stone.

The part of the Fade he finds himself in is strange, dark and mist covered with tendrils of dreams sticking to his skin and pulling him down. He finds he has little strength to combat them. They drag him to his knees, wrap around his wrists like ghostly shackles, and it is merely a struggle to lift his hands under their weight. The poison has weakened not only his body but his connection to the Dreaming it seems. Such a powerful concoction to bring even him low.

Ahead, the green fog parts and the russet wolf prowls close. A growl rumbles through Fen’Lin, lips peeling back to show vicious teeth, hackles raised and shivering like flames upon her back. He feels hot breath against his face as she snaps jaws only inches away. Her energy sparks around them as wild as the form she takes, strong and vibrant and lashing out against his weakened magic and the world.

When she seems satisfied with her display the wolf sits back on her haunches with a huff and glares at him, head cocking to the side in thought, and it reminds him so much of _her_ that his heart seems to strain forward inside his chest to reach out. He waits for her to change or speak, for he finds he can do nothing but hang on at the edge of possibility.

“I expected a better hunt from Fen’Harel himself. What do you see when you look upon me, Old Wolf? Your beginning or your end? I know which one I see.” 

It is not her voice or one he recognizes, nor a voice at all. It is a hundred of them overlapping upon another so he cannot hear just one by itself. The hope flourishing within his breast withers. Keela was not one for games and now he realizes that is all they are playing - the costume, the name, the breadcrumbs left for him to find. He is a toy to be tossed and trampled, destroyed at its owner’s whims, and he has let them for just one taste of what could be. He feels foolish, furious, but it is all buried beneath a deluge of disappointment so harsh it feels like needles in his skin.

“Feeling under the weather? I took some of your blood after you fell unconscious. I hope you don’t. Your people found you long before you could bleed out, but that and the spell I’ve made will make you weak for quite some time.”

“You are not her,” he says finally, words whispered and heavy in his mouth.

Fen’Lin is quiet for a moment. The Fade churns, anger and some other fathomless thing he cannot grasp writhing around him. He sees restraint in the way her tail thumps and legs shake, feels her power pressing close yet not touching before it all falls away to the margins. When she speaks again the voices are low, mocking. “I am what you have made me, _Solas_.” 

The name cracks through his skull, washes over him with frozen waters that make him gasp. It has been decades since he heard it last. He glances up into those yellow eyes to watch them soften and wonders how cut open his own expression must be to warrant even her slightest sympathies.  “You cannot be her,” he amends, begging to be proven right or wrong and still not knowing which would be the greater boon.

“And what would be left of her in the wake of all your ruin, I wonder? You of all people know how masks work, _harellan_. They are a shelter from the truths you do not even wish to show yourself. Sometimes the mask is all we can be.”

He is becoming wearier with every passing moment, the chains around his wrists and the battle in his heart aching, and he has long since grown tired of riddles and half truths after spewing forth so many of his own. “Tell me who you are.”

“I am Sera, Cole, Cassandra. Cullen, Josephine. Rylen, Mythal. I am the lover and the daughter you left in ash. I am every soul you have condemned to the void because of your pride. I am even you, the parts that were sacrificed for this hollow victory. I am the blood that cannot be wiped clean no matter how hard you scrub and I will not be forgotten.”

She steps back and the Fade pools in after her, this time covering his body and forcing him all the way to the ground. He looks up one last time to see her walking away and changing into something mortal. Through the mist and blackness filling up his eyes he can only catch a glimpse of darkened hair before the Beyond claims him completely. “Dream, Dread Wolf, and wake to another world on fire.”

And dream he does. He flies through endless memories that he cannot keep at bay. He is a boy running through lavender flowers that spark and sigh as his small fingers touch them. With fire in his veins he chases a maiden into the shadows and tastes desire for the first time. There is copper in his mouth as an ancient war with ancient beings claiming divinity rages. His throat scorches as he consumes his own means towards godhood in defiance and desperation.

Then there is her. Always her. Keela weaves seamlessly into every memory until it seems like she has forever been a part of him. At first he cannot latch onto any dream but as time passes, if it does at all in this existence, everything seems to sharpen and the shackles loosen. The churning waves calm, the silt of a lifetime separating, and the current casts him into clearer waters and a memory months before the Veil’s collapse.

He has walked willingly into one of her traps this time. They stand within the ruins of an old temple, dust streaming through shafts of sun and lighting her up like a star, but it is her own strength rekindled and brighter than ever that draws him closer. There are no more smudges beneath her eyes, limbs thick with muscles retrained. Her false hand is clear with furious flames swirling inside ready to leap forth at command and even he marvels at its ingenuity. She is the Inquisitor no longer, a herald of nothing, and instead something of her own making. All the shattered shards forged back together, all the tenacity of her will focused, all the sacrifices made to bring her here. They have made her even greater than before.  

He does not fear her efforts any longer, however. It is why he has allowed this meeting despite all protests from others and himself. She has been cunning and clever in her attempts to stop him, but it has always been a fight no mortal could ever win. There is not much she can do to stop his plans save perhaps for driving the dagger she now holds between his ribs. 

He knows the moment she realizes that she has only tangled herself in this snare and bitterness turns the flames of her power darker. “You knew I would be here.”

It is not a question but he answers it all the same. “Yes.”

“Why come then? Because my efforts are futile or because you wish for me to succeed?”

He comes to a stop as the dagger’s tip touches against his armor. “It is all I wish for, but I have told you there will be no other way.”

Keela’s fingers pulse around the blade’s handle, the light in her eyes shifting with conflict. Metal grates upon metal as she presses in but the action is as useless as her battles have been. He watches her, waiting to see if she will shift to the weak parts of his armor, wondering what he will do if she does. 

“Why are you here?” she asks again, quiet over the rampant beating of his heart. It is done, it _will_ be done soon, and he can no longer concentrate on the upcoming victory or the glory that will await the elves after the chaos has settled. Due to her influence, he has even made sure the other races will survive in some capacity. All he can think of, dream of, is standing right before him now.

“Vhenan-”

“No!” She pushes him back with her hands, shoving both of them towards the other side of the temple. “You want me to stop trying to save my world, to accept this fate, and then expect me to fall into your arms? You cannot have everything!”

As his back slams into the stone the knife comes to dig into his throat and instinct has him grasping for her wrists. She does not fight him nor burn him away in her fury for it is cooled with tears collecting in the corner of her eyes. “How dare you ask this of me. Have I not given you enough?”

She has. She has given him her love, her purpose, her body. It is far more than he has ever deserved or wanted, but now he finds he wants more. Needs more. The beast inside him desires to devour her and this world whole, to gorge itself until it cannot contain what it has consumed. He wants and he wants and he wants and it is tearing him apart and only she has ever been able to keep him together. 

Blood drips warm into his collar, the sharp edge digging into his skin with promise, and he does nothing. It will be her decision for he is still so very much a coward. She shakes her head, knowing his intent as well as she knows his heart. “You were wrong. You are a monster.”

“Yes.”

Keela takes a breath, breaking with the exhale, and for once he is there to pick up the pieces. The dagger clatters to the floor as he spins them around, mouth claiming hers, hands claiming every inch of her that he can reach. There is nothing gentle between them, only desperate hands and hips, demanding teeth and nails. Even in this surrender there is still a battle to be fought. He holds her tight knowing that there can only be letting go no matter how hard they might wish it.

“ _Solas_ ,” she says over and over and he swallows every utterance, every cry and moan from her lips even knowing he cannot keep them all. 

She does not stay long after, does not beg him to come with her, and it does not pain him to see her walk away. What hurts him is the hope he still sees within her eyes but here, in the beginning of the end, they will both need something to see them through it. In the end, they are both fools.

He wakes not with cold stone against his back but supported by soft sheets. It takes some time to recognize the bed beneath him, the familiar drapery dancing in the wind, the shape of his own rooms back within the capitol. Before he can rise completely a hand moves into his vision holding a wooden cup.

“Drink,” Abelas commands and the Dread Wolf obeys, coughing around the taste and the dry parchment of his throat. With tremendous effort he manages to finish every drop and feels exhausted from the simple task. “I will send for healers now that you are awake. They could do precious little in that poisoned slumber.”

“I...”

“It is unknown what type of spell it was. Likely some shemlen artifice for it was unrecognizable to us. You have been incapacitated for almost a week under its influence.” Abelas takes the empty cup from him and with a loud thunk drops it on the nearby table. “It was a grave mistake to step into their trap.”

There are severe lines beneath Abelas’ vallaslin, weary tracks at the corners of his eyes and an irritation in the grim set of his lips Fen’Harel doubts is from worrying for him. With sleep falling away he can feel the air trembling, hear echoes of something large rumbling through the Fade and into the waking world. “What has happened?”

“Halamshiral has fallen.”

* * *

 

art by [yukaryote](https://tmblr.co/m7lQ44HDyrDB3gOe8G7UWsg)


	6. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Brief mentions of human trafficking

It is a heavy thing, the mantel of the wolf. 

It rests beside her feet at the moment, cast aside there when she stormed into the room. She ignores it still as she finishes the final touches upon her next gift to Fen’Harel. The mural blissfully takes most of her concentration, each layer needing to be precise and timed correctly or else the whole will fail, and she doesn’t have time for mistakes. 

A week has passed since she claimed Halamshiral and the flames of rebellion need continuous coaxing as they spread across the land. Lydes is already theirs, the Elven of the city rising up against their oppressors before other fires were even quelled. The Red Knights set their sights on Montsimmard next, but her gaze is on the magnificent city across the Waking Sea and the capitol Fen’Harel claimed as his own. Just a short distance and still such a long road ahead.

Elvhen forces stand against them and fall just as quickly. They lived too long in their waking coffins, have grown too complacent in the luxury and comfort Fen’Harel provides for his chosen people, and find themselves at a loss without his current favoritism. He still slumbers in the spelled sleep she placed upon him, drifting through dreams and memories. The Elven have never forgotten what it is to fight, to know the scent of prey as they haunted in a hostile world or how to disappear and strike sharp like those who lived under human heels. The descendants of the Dales do not fear a world in shambles for it is all that they know.

The ground trembles from the thousands upon thousands now uniting together for their cause, but it is not hers. She may be the head of this beast, lift banner and voice for the freedom of these people, yet it is not what she seeks. 

With her task finally completed, she moves away from the walls and approaches the desk in the center. Fingers run across old wood, pass over marks scored into the grain, and she wonders what determination saw them created. She sweeps her gaze around the circular room to see every side painted and takes in the story told with every stroke- the fires of Haven, the mists of the Fade, the grandeur of the Winter Palace. 

Decades ago an elf looked upon these barren walls of Skyhold and created something beautiful, something that was not the designs of a god but of a mortal heart with its own desires, and that is what she seeks to conquer. Yet she fears losing herself to the flames of her own war before it can come to pass, of becoming an even greater monster than the one she hunts. 

Fen’Lin looks down at her hands covered in splotches of green and blue paint and only sees the red that covered them not long ago. Her mind throws her back to the night after she bested the Dread Wolf. Word has spread about her victory and it rattles through Halamshiral, whispered by Elvhen and Elven alike, and it is what the Red Knights uncover next that sets the rebellion in full motion. 

The building above is filled with polished stone and elegant conversation. The richest of Halamshiral come to bet and gamble, to dine and despair about their extravagant lives while Elven entertain them for meager livings. Tonight the grand space is bursting for a special concert featuring Elvhenan’s latest muse and the sweeping staircases and lavish halls are filled with Elvhen wagering away their endless supply of wealth for laughter and smiles.

It is a different matter in the building below. Below coin is passed in payment for flesh and bone. Many months and much cost went into the discovery of it, this great, dark secret beneath the glistening colors and radiant things, and if there has ever been something to prove the hollow nobility of the Elvhen it is found here where they barter for Dalish lives to sate their vile lust.

By the time Fen’Lin enters the seedy underground the guards and employees have been dispatched by her knights. She walks through rows of patrons kneeling, swords and bows pointed at their heads, and approaches the owner bookended by Briala and Reiveth. Even through his mask, Fen’Lin can see the disgust upon her adviser’s face at what they have stumbled upon.  

For her part Briala forgoes a mask once again, but her anger is a hardened thing. “Across the empire, each of your slave rings are being raided by our people. All of Elvhenan will know of your crimes and the Dalish will not stand for what has happened here.”

The Blood Wolf glances at the others in the room. It is mostly women that stand against the far wall, some barely clothed while others are dressed to entice, and all of them Elven. Sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers stolen from the streets and their homes to fill base desires. _He_  has allowed this even if he is ignorant of its presence. Every Elvhen has allowed this as they turn their noses up on the children of their children, the last remnants of Arlathan that survived alone for so long.

Fen’Lin’s gaze falls upon a small figure in the line - a girl who can be no older than ten or eleven, lipstick smeared across half her cheek, and rage storms bright and vicious inside. This world is made of nothing but betrayal and she will see it burn. It is with a swift motion that she slices through the neck of the elf before her and the first blood she spills that night soaks through the lush carpet at their feet.

She is a wraith of death and destruction as she cuts through the crowded rooms above next, her Red Knights slaughtering any Elvhen that manage to escape her wrath. Their vengeance spreads throughout the city until by daybreak every citizen of Halamshiral knows of the great misdeeds of those born of Arlathan and the great retribution Fen’Lin promises. As the sun reaches its highest peak, she stands upon the steps of the governor’s mansion with his head in one hand and her sword raised high in the other, and the thousands of Dalish below answer with a thunderous reply.

It is with some amount of mercy she allows Elvhen to abandon the city, even escorts a few that know well enough to listen to first warnings. The gates remain thrown wide open, clear of traps or tricks, but those that would not take heed are massacred trying to reach them. She lets her people have their revenge, joins them in the revelry as rivers of blood rain down Halamshiral’s streets. Only the young have her protection - for every child she sees harmed her fury is worse against the offending Elven, but she knows even some of them will be sacrificed for this cause.

The Blood Wolf does not care as she stands atop a pile of rubble and bodies and knows the red of her fur has darkened with all the life lost, but standing here, among silence and portraits of victory over evil, the person beneath the mask screams until her throat feels as torn as the soul inside.

Slowly she manages to return to herself, wiping tears from her eyes and paint from her fingers, and retrieves her fallen headpiece. It weighs a great deal more than it did only hours ago and before she shrugs it back into place, her eyes take in the fresco she has added to Skyhold’s walls. It is a memory under starlight and the gaze of great statues, a quiet place where the sound of falling waters fill the air, where truth was offered and love given. Two elves kneel together with magic lifting away marks of slavery and replacing them with new loyalties bound by the heart.  _Ar lasa mala revas_. In that single moment before a final embrace, they both were.

Some day they might be again.

Fen’Lin replaces her mask and leaves the rotunda behind. She takes steadying breath after breath as she walks through the narrow hallway and into the main area of the keep, for there will be more blood and battle ahead. A great eluvian has replaced a throne at the head of the hall, shining just as brightly as the sun through the stained glass beyond, and her feet walk towards it without thought. Her mind is beyond its surface, on the next task, on the next part of her to be sacrificed, so much so she does not notice him until she’s reached the end of the long, empty tables.

At the foot of the dais, Fen’Harel waits for her.

* * *

In dreaming memory, Keela waits for him on the balcony. 

For months the pair have been meeting in secret to continue this ill-advised affair. They collide together, desperate fingers seeking flesh, mouths hot and hard, minds clouded with heavy desire. He’s taken her through eluvians and listened to her screams of pleasure fill a place no person has been in centuries. She’s made him beg, pleas drifting up with curling steam inside the palace’s bathhouse. With his fingers in her mouth he’s held her against the wall while in the next room her companions contemplated their next move to defeat him. 

The Dread Wolf and the former Inquisitor have become nothing more than lust filled youths searching for secret corners and hidden places to chase after what’s been lost, holding onto whatever is left as the end threatens to crash down. It is wrong, a beyond impulsive thing that will see them both broken, but it was difficult for him to resist when she only knew his lies - it is impossible to let go when she knows the truth and still chooses him. 

He knows as well that there has been a hope building the longer they linger together after each embrace that perhaps the next time he will simply stay. So many times he has considered it. He considers it now as he looks at her, hesitating to rush forward and cut another wound into both their hearts. Hair falls over shoulders like spilled ink, skin colored by the stained glass and glistening sun. His eyes trace the scar beside hers, a gift from the Deep Roads that he was not there to witness, fall down her false arm to where an obvious seam reminds them both of his transgressions. She no longer squirms away from its attention but the evidence of her pain is in the hardening of her features, the beginnings of lines like weathered roads trampled from harsh travel. It is his attempts at immortality that have aged her and now they are both out of time.

Keela does not approach at first either, facing him yet frozen in place by some thought of her own. It is not defiance nor disgust, a challenge or cunning ploy. It is not love either, but he has not dared to wish for that for some time even when she holds on a little longer each time before he leaves. No, he knows the expression on her face for he has worn it many times. It is the struggle to speak what is unthinkable, to free something that wants to be let out of its cage but will tear the world to shreds with its knowledge.

Whatever it is she keeps it locked inside instead and he cannot condemn what he has done to her countless times. At last they move together at the same time and he allows himself to once again be swept away by her touch, her mouth, her hands, _her._ He carries her to the bed and lays down his own burdens, forgets to ponder hers. He remaps memories across her skin, pulls familiar sounds from her lips. Things she gave freely to an apostate who knew he no longer dreamed and yet could not believe she could be anything but a figment.

She makes a noise against his shoulder, something not from pleasure or pain, and he is swift to pull away to find it is sorrow that has seeped into her throat. Tears track down her cheeks, lip quivering despite her best efforts to hold it into submission. Unmindful of the weak protests, he stills to wrap his hands around her face and wipe the warm saline from her skin.

He does not ask what has caused her suffering - it is him, always him. For a moment he wonders if she has discovered the last thing he holds from her, that tonight is the last they will meet in this world for tomorrow a new one will be born. Later, when he lays feigning sleep with her dagger at his neck and she fails to finish the task, he knows she did not suspect until it was too late. Much later, he comes to understand what has shattered her as she stands opposing him growing heavy with their child and he is a wretched, thankful thing that she kept the truth from him. A small mercy, the choice he didn’t have to make.

Her legs wrap around him, arms pulling him back to cover her again. “Solas, please. Please, I need you.”  

Tomorrow he will take everything from her. Tonight he gives in, gives her all that he is - the god, the elf, the battered being she has saved even in her defeat. She is his only cause, his only salvation. There is no Veil, no dawn nor day, only the narrow space between their heartbeats and hips. He writes a symphony of his love across her body, makes her sing in exalted bliss until they are both exhausted, and does not think what will happen when the music finally ends.

Enough strength remains in her afterwards to throw an an arm around his chest and hold tight, and he marvels at her perseverance in even this. “Will you stay the night with me?”

It is a simple request, one he has never denied and will not do so now even if it will give her hope when there is none. It is not with a faltering resolve that he agrees, however - it is with a goodbye. She lifts her head to look at him in the fading light. “Will you be here when I wake?”

He gives her one last thing, one last lie. “I…I do not know.”

A moment passes as she struggles again to decide to speak, but the confession never leaves her lips. Instead she leans in and captures his in a gentle touch that speaks of devotion and forgiveness and a thousand other things that he does not deserve, least of all this- “I love you, Solas,” she says, and he does not understand how he survives it.

The next time they meet she calls him Fen’Harel and he thinks perhaps Solas did die that day.

He rouses himself from the dream and back into the present, but it is some time before he manages to lift himself from the bed. Laying here amongst the dust and decay seems only fitting for that is all that is left of him, still weakened from Fen’Lin’s poison and now the pains of memory. So many mistakes, so many good intentions - would it be the right thing to simply give up now? Would inaction be preferable to action, no matter how misguided? Once, he believed he knew the answer. Now he wonders if he was asking all the wrong questions from the beginning.

Necessity finally drags him to standing. He did not come here to chase after ghosts. Skyhold is the most secure fortress he commands even if it is empty, banners long since torn down and tables bare. It is because of what hovers here in the highest tower - his new orb, crafted from an old world destroyed. There is no evidence it has been tampered with, no signs that anyone has managed to break through his barriers, and yet this does not comfort him as it should.

He takes a moment to siphon some of its energies into his weary body. Even if the power belongs to him it is still a troublesome thing, as if the souls of the past refuse to give up what he stole with whatever fight still remains. Futile but fearless, a fortitude he took advantage of, a legacy he learned was never his but theirs. A thing he wishes he could give back if it were possible. 

The orb doesn’t return to its resting place but instead slips into one of his pouches. Fen’Lin has set fire to Elvhenan and coated its streets with the spent life of his kin. She has answered the savage treatment of the Elven with savagery of her own and the mania she has amassed is stronger than any Elvhen spell or blade. For those that have had everything taken from them, they will fight with nothing left to lose. He knows this, knows what further carnage will await if he doesn’t intervene. The Dread Wolf can sleep no longer.

With his prize in possession, he leaves the Inquisitor’s tower and makes his way back to the eluvian standing in the main hall. His first task will be to locate the leaders of the Red Knights. It will not be enough to capture Fen’Lin alone and he imagines doing so will only make a martyr of her, a bolster to the Elven cause. He must decapitate every head, scatter their forces beyond hope. It is what the Evanuris failed to do to his rebellion and it was the downfall of them all.

As he enters the main hall he cannot believe his eyes to see who else occupies Skyhold. The daunting task ahead seems to be made all the easier as his very prey walks towards him now. He waits for the illusion to break but it is no trick of the light, not trap set by a very unwise or very brave spirit. It seems an added impossibility that she doesn’t appear to notice him with head bowed low, the tips of the wolf’s ears pointed down. He could take her unawares, end more bloodshed before it’s spilled, discover who it is that haunts him so.

Instead he waits at the bottom of the stairs for her to notice his presence. There is something about her demeanor that stops him. She is not the proud wolf who paraded around Halamshiral and pranced around his defeated dreams. She is slumped, slow, so much smaller than he remembers. This cannot be the one who tricked a god of Arlathan, conquers his cities, kills his people like cattle for her righteous slaughter, yet he knows what a burden the mantel can be, how it changes you into something inhuman, and he sees its influence upon her now.

Fen’Lin jerks to a stop when she finally recognizes him, mouth gaping open in silent surprise even as her fingers reach for the wicked daggers strapped to her back. He should attack now and disarm her, turn the Blood Wolf to stone and be rid of her all together, but he thinks about yellow eyes and a puzzle still not solved. It is enough time for her to compose herself into the rebel leader of the Dales. 

She springs forward, flame and daggers shining, and he would marvel at her bold tenacity if he was not expecting it. He avoids her initial attack, stepping from the grasp of her blades and creating a staff of rock and light to meet her next. It has been some years since he needed to carry a true one and even now this dance is unnecessary, but he watches her carefully, eyes looking for familiar patterns and tells of someone he has sparred with many times. 

It is challenging to tell for Keela rarely fought with knives in their time together and Fen’Lin moves with an unnatural quickness that makes him focus on the task at hand lest she manages to pierce through his defenses. They move across the hall, flashes of fire and fur, stone and steel. Perhaps any other time, in any other life, he would enjoy this. She is skilled, smart, but he has played this game for far too long.

“Enough.” He reaches out with his magic and _pulls._ Daggers go flying by him, bouncing off the wall and clattering loud to the ground. Fen’Lin digs her feet in, limbs shaking as she resists his influence, but she slides closer with every heartbeat. He will catch her, rip the mask from her face and end this once and for all, even if it will finally be his end as well.

When she is only a few steps away a snarl of defiance roars from her mouth. Power wraps around her, red and purple bands of lightning that thrums with violent will. She does not use it to lash out at him - it barrels off behind her, launching her into the air above his head as she uses their magic combined to catapult beyond his reach and right in front of the eluvian. A daring, foolish move, but one he was not expecting this time.

“No, Fen’Harel. It is not enough. Not yet.” With a quick bow Fen’Lin jumps into the rippling surface, disappearing beyond his reach once more.


	7. Pride

The Dread Wolf is losing claim over his pack. He feels it as he walks through palace halls lined with nobles. Weeks before they bowed low like quick falling cards and now they are slower to show respect, their awe marred by suspicion and worry. Whispers follow in his wake, lilting with questions left unanswered and rumbling with bold opinions. Word has reached them all of the Blood Wolf’s success in the southern cities, of the tidal wave making its way towards the capitol, and he does not dismiss their concerns. He knows all he need do is pull the orb from its place at his side to quell their fears and renew their waning trust. There is nothing, not even the world itself, that does not kneel before the strength of an Evanuris whole. 

Instead he keeps his gaze ahead and hands behind his back for if there is one thing he is, it is _not_ whole. Neither is this facade of fancy around them, this safe harbor with horizons growing black. He cannot protect them from himself.

“Do you have it?” Merrill asks as he enters the council chambers.

“It is safe.”

“Oh, that’s a relief.”

“Where is Abelas?”

“In the gardens, meditating,” Veranna answers. “His opinions on tomorrow have not changed. I believe he is preparing himself for the worst, as usual.”

“And you? Has your mind changed?”

“Kings do not cower. We must show Elvhenan who it should fear, remind them our our strength. Our blood is meant for ruling.”

Merrill grimaces. “Maybe not mention that last part. If it must be done, it needs to be done carefully. The people need reassured. All of them.”

“The Dalish-”

“Are our responsibility,” Merrill interrupts, a spike of steel in her voice. “Whether you want to admit it or not, your blood is in our veins too.”

“We will tread with caution,” Fen’Harel says. “The event might also present an opportunity to uncover sympathizers if nothing else. Place more of your agents within the crowds, unarmed. I do not wish to incite further conflict.”

He spends a few more minutes discussing plans for the upcoming ceremony before finding his way to the gardens. The morning is mild, a crisp edge that speaks of autumn coming, and he sees it in the few impatient leaves turning orange already. He wonders how many Elvhen contemplate the mortality around them, the bright, beautiful things taken for granted and thought lesser for their nature, and yet he cannot blame them for this either. In his sorrow it was all too easy to slip into the prejudices of the past, to shackle on the familiar instead of forging a new path. He led them all astray.

Abelas kneels beneath boughs of myrtle trees already blazing brilliant red in defiant joy. “The ceremony will go as planned?” he asks as Fen’Harel approaches quietly, feet cushioned by thick grass.

“Yes.”

“Sit with me. There is something I believe you should finally see,” the sentinel says after a pause.

Fen’Harel agrees, pulling his legs beneath him into a pose that was once effortless. It has been years since he took a moment to meditate and he feels it in his complaining limbs. “What is it?”

“A memory. I invite you into my Dreaming.” 

“As you wish.” Fen’Harel takes a breath and closes his eyes, calling out to touch the banners of magic drifting through the air. Abelas’ essence appears before him, pale ends tattered, but the thread is strong as he reaches out and takes hold. 

It is a strange thing to open his eyes and view the world through another’s perception. Abelas stands upon Skyhold’s long bridge. He is the only other occupant - when dawn came on the morning of the Veil’s destruction, Fen’Harel whisked Keela a safe distance away to Haven’s doorstep. He stayed for a while to simply watch her eyes fluttering behind lids in his spelled sleep, face softened and so very beautiful, an autumn blossom he would see bloom forever. With a last kiss to her brow he returned with heart heavy and mind made. Beneath the main structure, in the bones of Tarasyl'an Te'las true, he took his new orb into the shadows and left Abelas aloft to ward away any who might try to disrupt his plans.

Something in the distance shines against the final throes of a sapphire sunset. A shape emerges through the clouds, long and large, and Abelas straightens with a stricken expression for it is a beast they both know. The scarlet dragon shakes the stone as it lands, stumbling a bit, and almost immediately disappears into a puff of smoke and ash to be replaced by a woman. It is not one either of them expects, however.

“Move, Abelas,” Keela demands, the magic of her false hand almost blinding as she approaches. The sight of her startles Fen’Harel, so much so that the dream wavers with his disbelief a moment before settling back into place. It is Abelas’ memory but also his secret, for it has never been spoken of before. To his knowledge, Fen’Harel thought she remained locked in slumber, ignorant of her world changing. It was a gift he hoped to give her, this fate that need not be witnessed when it could not be changed.

“You have taken Mythal’s form.”

“Have you forgotten I am bound to her the same as you? You must have or else you would not be standing there when we both know this is not what she wanted. So _move_.”

“I will not.”

“Then I will move you.”

The power of her attack pushes Abelas back into the lower courtyard before it dissipates. There are cracks running up her prosthetic in the aftermath, smoke seeping through the fissures, and Fen’Harel knows she will not be able to command such power again. She manages to make it to the second landing before Abelas sends bolts of lightning at the arch below and crumbles the path to ruin. It is a game they continue around the courtyards - Keela attempts to fight towards every entrance only to have Abelas lift the ground up to cover the way, create a frozen barrier too thick to bash through. 

She yells in outrage when she is foiled yet again and finally turns her attention back to the Elvhen. With a flick of her wrist, a whip of fire extends from her hand and snaps out towards him. Fen’Harel knows how talented she is in combat, in everything, but he can see exhaustion etched across her face covered in sweat and her knowledge cannot compare to the well within her opponent.

It is not long before Abelas has her on her knees, armor singed and ripped. “Yield.”

Keela shakes her head, fingers carving into the dirt as she tries to stand and finds her legs uncooperative. “I can’t.”

“I have always admired your tenacity. You should be proud that you have come so far.”

“Proud.” She laughs, sits back on her heels. “If not for _Pride_  I would not need be here. Will you be proud when you look out on your new kingdom made with the blood of mine? So noble the elves of Arlathan will be, making houses upon our graves before we are cold.”

“The Dread Wolf has assured-”

“You know his pride is blinder than all the rest. Please, Abelas. Let me stop him. Let us find another way, the way that she wanted. I know it can exist.”

Whatever Abelas may have answered with at first is lost as the ground begins to shake. In the courtyard below the earth splinters and twists, beams of green light rising up as pieces fall away until there is no more. The energy shoots into the sky growing brighter and brighter with every pulse of the focus at its center.

“It is too late.”

“No!” Keela rushes to her feet and runs towards the light, but Abelas catches her around the waist in a tight grip.

“You cannot go any nearer! The power will destroy you.” 

They both fall to their knees as the whole mountain rocks. The great force causes the tavern behind them to groan and parts of the structure to collapse. Stones and mortar rain down from the towers above and all the while the magic of the orb punches a hole into the clouds above. Fen’Harel pays little attention to anything but her.

“No, he…he can’t,” Keela moans, misery coating her features, falling from her eyes. His name is screamed into the churning air, a curse as much as it is a plea, and it is painful thing to see her slump against Abelas’ side. Defeat makes her appear small, weak, worn like a drawing smeared from abusive hands. As the sky shatters he watches her hope finally do the same, and it will be a thing that haunts him forever.

The dream drifts apart like petals on the wind and drops them back into the capitol’s gardens. It is a lengthy stretch before either of them speak again. Fen’Harel doubts he could find words to express the thunderous turmoil clawing inside. She was there. She was there fighting with everything she had until the last moment. For her world. For him. His greatest sin upon her and she was made to watch.

“I have never spoken of this at her behest nor myself believed it would be a useful thing for you to know, especially after her death,” Abelas reveals. 

“Why reveal it to me now?”

“Until now I have not truly questioned my actions. I believed stopping her was the correct course even though there have been times I wondered if I should have let her go. Would the outcome be for the better, or worse? The answer was once so clear and now…”

Abelas rises to his feet, hands coming together to brush away errant grass and debris fallen from fading trees. “When we cannot answer our own questions, perhaps it is time for another to choose.”

The thought stays with Fen’Harel as he returns to the palace, as he lays out every item Fen’Lin has given him upon his bed and feels something looking at each. Surprise as he grips her hand for the first rift, joy as he chases after her brief kiss in the Fade, relief as Wisdom leaves and he returns to find Keela waiting for him upon the steps of Skyhold. Their dance through Halamshiral spreads a lightness only love can create and there is a deep wonder to be found when he thinks of her trust as he uncoils the vines beneath her eyes beneath starlight and statues.

It is their story, pieces lost when he buried them beneath grief and could only look upon them as a pain which made him weak, a whim destined for doom. But there was brilliance there, something worth fighting for no matter its inevitability, something worth remembering - like the trees insolent before winter’s first touch. He had tried to forget but she never did, never stopped burning until the very bitter end and maybe beyond that. Her hope has long since withered but here, surrounded by evidence of a love that lasts despite the cold, it only grows stronger than ever inside his chest. 

His hearts begins to sing again and he wonders how he survived so long in its silence.

The next day he shuffles into the grandstands above the central square with the city’s citizens of Arlathan and the Dales below. They have come to celebrate the revealing of a new statue dedicated in his honor, something planned for months and yet the timing seems off now with all that has happened. The crowds are restless, the two separate people pushed as far away from each other as possible with the memorial in the middle. Arbitrators walk through the throng and along the edges, but their presence seems to do little to quell the unrest. It buzzes, a hornet swarm growing louder and louder. 

“We should get on with it, don’t you think?” Merrill says behind him. He does.

Fen’Harel signals for the cloth to be removed. There are gasps and shouts as the large draping falls away. It depicts him standing tall and sure with the orb outstretched in one hand. The whole piece is made of marble black and white and green light shines inside, flickering like a candle flame throughout it all but concentrated more inside the orb. He knows it will glow stronger at night, a beacon towards a better future. It is remarkable, but it is not the reason for their reaction.

It is because Fen’Lin sits atop the focus.

She stretches out to her full height, the golden eyes of the wolf’s mask boring into his even as the crowd surges and soldiers move to surround her below, but the two wolves pay little attention to anything else but each other. The moment seems to freeze, movement passing them by in a blur on far horizons. He does not wonder how the Red Knights managed to sneak by all their security. They have proven to be anything but bumbling children. He only wonders what she sees looking up at him, the great Fen’Harel, Lord of Arlathan - is he a monster that needs slaying, or a sheep in wolf’s clothing? 

Her penchant for pageantry has only begun, however. A few seconds later a giant banner unfurls down a building’s front across the square, a gift from Fen’Lin greater than all the others yet. The Inquisitor in all her glory is painted at the center, hair billowing in the wind as she lifts his orb high into the air above Corypheus’ head and seals the Breach once and for all. A battle that seems so long ago, a threat that was merely an accident, a footnote in his own grand schemes, but he remembers the valiant struggles to see it won. He remembers Keela’s bouts of self doubt, her resolve regardless, remembers telling her that she is more than strong enough to claim victory. After all, the worst fight was yet to come.

Beneath her feet a phrase is scrawled, an ancient anthem of a people bloodied but not beaten. Fen’Lin lifts her fist into the air and shouts it at the top of her lungs in a hundred voices that will not be silenced. “ _Never again shall we submit!”_

It races through the crowd and echoes back, gaining even more voices with every pass as the Dalish answer her call, as they remember what it is to be defiant. When the chant becomes a roar, Fen’Lin upturns her face to his, the spread of her red smile stretching like a first wound, and he cannot help but return it with one of his own in recognition of her deeds no matter their cost. She has not only followed in his rebellious footsteps- she is overcoming them.

When she drops her arm the light inside the statue explodes outwards, breaking through fractures in the seams. It shatters into dozens of smaller pieces and falls to the courtyard to more ruin. As the statue’s arm crashes down he watches Fen’Lin’s figure flicker and feels a jolt of panic when she disappears into the dust and rubble billowing up. An hour passes until the rioting crowd has been quieted and pushed from the square. They do not find her body in the wreckage and he is relieved, although not entirely surprised. This is not their end.

While another world begins to burn beneath him, Fen’Harel returns to his tower and waits for it to come.

* * *

She hauls herself up the last ledge with a laugh. The memory of Fen’Harel’s flabbergasted face refuses to leave her and only grows more amusing with every hour passed. It is more than that which makes her smile, however - there was moment when his face changed, mouth reforming into a small grin barely made before it was gone, but its intention was not missed. In the face of her chaos and destruction he was proud. He was proud of _her_.

Quick feet cross crumbling stone and all but hop into a small library. Once she found a strange chapter to one of Varric Tethras’ novels here covered in layers of dust older than the dwarf had ever been. Now she searches for another storyteller stuck between the shelves. His shape dissolves out of the shadows against the far wall and she wastes little time in throwing herself at him, legs leaping up to wrap around his waist.

“Lethallan!” is all he manages to say before she slants her mouth over his and digs hands into the braids of his hair to push them even closer. As always he stiffens at her touch at first, fighting latent shame and guilt, but then he is turning them around and holding her against the wall, desperate desire overcoming all doubts. When he sweeps away a pile of books and lays her down upon a table she laughs again, lighter than she has felt for a while with only his weight pressing down on her.

“What’s happened?” he asks when their wild heartbeats have finally settled and clothes clasp back in place. She tells him of their successful mission into the capitol, of the statue’s demolition and Fen’Harel’s absent attempts to quell the madness.

“The Elvhen and the Elven of the city are already in an uproar. I would not be surprised if by the time the Red Knights reach the capitol in force the gates will already be thrown wide open for them. And you? Do you have any news for me?”

“It is finished.”

“What! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“You made it somewhat difficult to speak,” he replies with a wry grin. A hand reaches into his satchel to pull out a glass bulb filled with green liquid. Something silver flashes inside it, like the bright scales of fish caught in the sunlight. “I tested a small batch. The power required for even a few minutes was substantial. Without the orb you will not succeed. Even then, you…”

Fen’Lin wraps her hands around his scarred ones. She doesn’t think of the struggle to come, the pain, the possibility of so many things going wrong - she only thinks about making this right. “It won’t matter.”

“It matters to some,” he says with a huff. “If you fail-”

“I won’t.” She leans up on her toes to give him a quick kiss before pocketing the potion in a protected pouch and coating it with a protection spell as an extra precaution. The small thing is their only hope, the one chance for a world where everyone can be together. “I should go. They’ve become more watchful of me these days.”

“Wait.” He pulls her in for another embrace, the last one if all her plans succeed. She feels his touch, soft yet searching, run across her face, down her body, memorizing what is meant to fade. For her part she soaks in the gentle warmth of his love even it has been marred by their fates and the unforgettable things of the past. Without him she never would have made it this far.

“Thank you,” she says when they part and pauses to run her fingers over the violet lines of his vallaslin one more time. She does not say goodbye- there have been too many of those for far too long.

There is only a final smile shared between them before she slips on her golden mask and turns to enter the main area of the crumbling ruins. She wonders what will happen to the Vir Dirthara when the world is flipped once again, but it is a sacrifice she is willing to make. There is nothing she won’t give to see this to the end- a trait she has learned from _him._

As she reaches the middle of the room something pops beneath her feet. A breath is all she manages to take before blinding light leaps up around her and a force pushes down from all sides. The prison bars shake and shoot energy into her bones, paralyzing her even as the magic lifts her into the air and squeezes. Somewhere she hears her name being yelled, _her true name_ , but it is all lost in the great pain pulsing through every inch of her, consuming sight and sound and throwing her into a black abyss with sharp teeth.

When she wakes to the world again she is still suspended above the floor. Remnants of power shake her limbs although the aching anguish has passed to leave her exhausted and sore beyond anything she’s ever known. It seems like years pass before she’s able to lift her head and discover the source of the spell. The leaders of the Red Knights stand in front of her while several more soldiers linger beyond, a few holding hostage her accomplice. Blood leaks down the side of his face, his expression fearful and furious, and she twists against her own bonds.

“Did you think you could hide this from us forever? Hide him?” Reiveth asks as he saunters up to the Dalish elf. “So good to see you again, Taliesin.”

Taliesin spits spite and blood at the noble’s feet and receives a slap across his face for the effort. Fen’Lin growls low, letting her rage reach up and push against the force around her, but it is a slow thing made all the harder by her fatigue. She just needs to delay them a bit longer. 

“We should kill him, finish the job started years ago.”

“It…won’t matter,” she manages to grind out, throat scorched from screams she doesn’t remember making. Her eyes met Briala’s. “I already know the truth. It was you, not Fen’Harel. It was you who caused the explosion and killed them all. You tried to make me into what you wanted, but I haven’t been your pawn in a long time.”

There is a stunned pause as all turn to face her, but her attention is only locked on the former spymaster - her _friend_. Briala watches her with very little surprise and some sadness, the edges of her eyes tinge with regret, and Fen’Lin wonders for how many years she’s suspected or perhaps even known.

“Well then, tell us what you’ve been planning behind our backs,” Reiveth demands as he brandishes a dagger that waves it in front of Taliesin’s face. Pinpricks of panic race down her spine and make her struggle all the harder. She cries out as Taliesin does when the blade slices down his arm. “Tell us!”

Through his pain he looks up at her, a smile with surrender on his lips. “It won’t matter.”

She nods, takes a breath. No sacrifice can be too great. “I will tell you nothing.”

“A most unfortunate thing,” Reiveth says before he drives the dagger into Taliesin’s chest and despite her resolve, Fen’Lin screams in savage sorrow to watch his blood run and eyes close. She curses them, fire and lightning crackling over her skin, as they let him fall to the harsh stone.

“What shall be done with her?” Nevaelathsan asks, voice calm and detached as ever, and she wants to ram the mask into their face until they truly cannot remove it.

“She can’t be trusted anymore. Whatever her allegiance, it’s not to our cause. I think that has been clear for some time.”

Briala shakes her head. “We still need her. Fen’Harel-”

“Will be drawn to her corpse all the same, as you well know. We can make a martyr out of her, say it was the Dread Wolf who slew our beloved Fen’Lin in this courageous war for our freedom. I dare say she will be more useful dead than alive.”

“No, I won’t-”

“Nevaelathsan.” With a flick of their wrist, the Elvhen sends Briala flying through the air to smack into the nearest wall, hard. She slides down the worn surface and lands in a puff of cinders. “Now, let us be done with this.”

“You coward!” Fen’Lin yells and is relieved to see Briala’s chest rising and falling. The chains around her are loosening as the two leaders approach but they still latch on with too much strength for her to break free. She is out of time and options, stripped of her only allies. A thought strikes through her, cutting through the madness and calling out to her desperation. There is one who she can call, an enemy instead.

With whatever fight she has, Fen’Lin reaches into the collar of her shirt and pulls out the pendant tucked away there. Nevaelathsan’s eyes narrow to see the jawbone but they are not quick enough to stop her as she brings the old thing to her lips and whispers a name. “Solas.”

Thunder claps as the world turns bright again, air sizzling when it splits apart in flashes of green and blue. A portal opens wide like a yawning mouth and from its inky blackness the Dread Wolf stalks through. He pauses to glance up at her and the necklace in hand, his face a wretched display of relief and shock, before he turns to her assailants with a determined scowl.

“No! It’s…” Reiveth backs away, arms rising to ward off this impossibility.

“Nevaelathsan,” Fen’Harel greets his kin, low and dangerous. “Ah, the final goal of your organization becomes clear.”

“ _Harellan_ ,” they reply with more venom and emotion than Fen’Lin has heard from the stoic Elvhen. Her prison flashes and fades as Nevaelathsan races forward to attack Fen’Harel with rock and fire and she falls to the ground in a heap of limbs still slow to react. She feels the Vir Dirthara shake beneath her, the pressure of powerful magic pulsing above her head. 

When she manages to finally look up the battle is already over. Reiveth is forever frozen, caught mid step in his attempt to escape to the stairs. A ring of Knights in the same condition surround nothing, swords and bows and daggers raised to never find their target. Nevaelathsan stands in stone only a few feet in front of her, mouth open shouting silence and hand outstretched to ward or war against the wolf in his way. There is no sign of struggle on Fen’Harel, furs and plates of armor in perfect order, and if his breath is raised she believes it to be her doing as he stares at her now. The library is quiet and even so she can hear his questions loud and clear with the way he looks at her like water after a long thirst. 

She does not blame him. There is only one person who should have known to clutch his medallion and call for his aid.

Fen’Lin scrambles to her feet and pays him no more mind. Taliesin’s body lays in a pond of blood and she covers her hands and knees in it as she crashes back to the floor at his side. It is futile, she knows, as he grows cold and stiff, but she can’t stop herself from calling to him, begging him to open his eyes, cursing this world from taking something else from her.

She does not rouse to defend herself as Fen’Harel approaches. There is little point- she has no more tricks up her sleeve, no more fight left in her veins. She does not expect much from the Dread Wolf’s mercy, but there is no room for fear inside her heavy heart. He stops a few feet away, words trembling at the margins like it is with some effort he finds the will to speak. “I…remember him. A spy in my service before the Veil’s collapse. Skilled, determined, clever. It was some time before I realized his loyalty was to another.”

“He…he was-” Her only true friend all these years. Her mentor, her lover, her family- whatever she needed he was there to provide, for he made a promise to see her through until the end and it was one oath sworn that was actually kept. Fen’Lin drops her head onto his still chest and breathes in the scent of copper and elfroot, tears soaking into the saturation of blood beneath her cheek.

When she opens her eyes again it takes her a moment to realize that she has been left alone to grieve. Fen’Harel is gone. She does not understand. He left her, left the thorn in his paw untouched after so many months of searching for it, of frustrated puzzles and forlorn memories. All he needed to do was reach out, confirm his suspicions and finally know the truth once and for all. The wolf had his teeth around her neck and chose to let go. _Why_ -

She gasps, reaching up to smear red across her mask. She forgot to hide her voice.

 


	8. Wrath

They forged her from fire and lies. What else could she become but a monster?

“Come, da’len.” 

Nevaelathsan guides her to stand in front of the eluvian. Wolves lift their faces to the sky on either side with eyes shining red in warning. There is an energy flowing from the ancient artifact, like hands pushing against shoulders urging one to turn back, but she takes another step forward. Another. She tries to stop her arm from shaking as she lifts fingers to brush against the glass. Lightning jumps from the surface and she pulls back with a gasp.

“Are you injured?” Briala asks.

She shakes her head. Her hand only tingles a bit and this time she lets it sink further into the eluvian’s surface. By her forearm the pain makes her grimace however, whimpers escaping from her mouth as electricity and pressure snake up her skin. It hurts, like someone’s holding her arm in a vice above a fire. She moves to pull it out but Nevaelathsan stops her.

“You must go forward.”

“Nevael-”

“If she cannot do it then we are all doomed,” he says and gives her a hard shove.

She flies through a shattering world and breaks apart. It feels like her bones are trying to escape from her skin, her blood leaping in one direction while her mind yanks in the other. The sensations are fleeting as she tumbles onto soft grass, but the agony in that moment is enough to last a lifetime. She has made it through or else death looks and feels too much like living. 

It takes a few long breaths to find a steady place and when she looks up she finds herself in a sunlight grove. There are aging statues of elks standing proud around waterfalls, ivy and glowing mushrooms growing everywhere. In the middle is something new, an obelisk of white and veins of gold. A bowl sits at the top with a flame burning bright even against the midday sun. 

Fingers drag over a name etched into the stone. The lettering is jagged in the middle and she wonders if he had to pause, overwhelmed by his emotions. Did he make such a beautiful monument from remembrance or regret? It does not matter. All in the love in the world could not stop him from changing it. She knows there is nothing buried here, but there is - a life, a love, a hundred smiles and touches, a thousand possible futures when all she ever wanted was one. 

She wants to destroy the memorial, raze the ground below it and smash it to pieces, but instead she bangs a useless fits against it before turning back to return to the eluvian. His mistakes cannot be buried, his truths something that cannot be held back by a grave, and he will be made to face them all. She thinks of the pain to come with tears coursing down her cheeks, but she will pay it time and time again for the chance to see his name written in stone next.

* * *

“Pick it up!” sounds the order before her dagger even thumps to the pressed earth. She shakes out her aching arm as she bends down to retrieve it, too slow for his pleasure. The courtyard tips as a staff cracks against the backs of her legs and sends her sprawling. “Do you think your enemies will stand by so long? You must be quick. An assassin is wind through trees. You are slower than a tree itself.”

A growl, low and deep, as she swipes the blade finally and jumps back to her feet. The rogue weapons are still new to her, awkward in a hand used to smooth wood heavy and thick, but it is more than her lack of training that makes her sluggish. It is difficult to ignore the sweat dripping into her eyes, to pull air into her lungs. She is so _tired_. She wants to close her eyes and simply rest for a moment, but she knows he will seize the opportunity of her distraction. There are plenty of bruises down her sides attesting to the fact. 

“You might as well have burned up in the fire with all the rest of them for all the good you will do.”

Her growl turns into a roar as she rushes forward in a burst of rage. She knows better, knows she is being goaded, but still she flies with daggers slashing and eyes blinded. Every day has been one challenge after another to push her magic, her mind, her body, driving her to exhaustion and the limits of her reserves until she can handle no more. 

It is with a few moves he has her on the ground again with the edge of his staff planted against her breastbone. “Your wrath can be a useful tool, but it can also make a tool out of you. You must learn to control it better.”

“Get off of me!” she yells, hot tears trailing from her eyes. Her attempts at escape end just the same but this time the staff strikes down with a quick force that steals the air from her lungs.

“How will you stand before him when the time comes? The one who murdered your future, the reason for our despair? You cannot even face me without the fires of vengeance searing your senses.”

“I think that’s enough for today,” another voice rings across the courtyard. She covers her eyes, creating sparks of light as they press in until it becomes painful. It is a better feeling than this beast clawing inside her ribs shredding her heart. 

Hands pull hers away and she sees a corona of auburn hair caught alight, the shadow of the sun casting darkness across a face she doesn’t need to see - she knows there is concern crinkling the edges of warm eyes, old burns across a cheek twitching with a frown. “Come. Let’s get you to the baths.”

She lets Briala help her up and drag her to the steaming waters, sinks into the heat with a sigh. Muscles begin to relax as her lessons wash away and she all but melts into the stone as the former spymaster begins to massage soap into her scalp. They are both silent and she is grateful for the peace offered. This is what she wants - an end to struggles, to blood and sweat shed, to betrayals and broken dreams. To stop chasing vengeance like a starving hound. She wants _more._

As her body uncoils her anger floats away, untethered. This time there are cool tears that slide down her cheeks dredged from the dark and hollow places inside. She hates him. After everything, every chance, he is beyond redemption. The hatred is a constant thing, a noise in her ear that won’t go away, but when it softens she can hear something worse - a desperate longing for things that could have been, for a life destroyed by his fire. 

“How could he do it?” she says, whisper soft like the slow waves around her. “ _Why?_ ” 

Briala’s fingers pause in her hair before she speaks. “You would always be his weakness, something of the past holding him back from his glorious purpose. The day he thought to have killed you is the day he truly became Fen’Harel again. The Dread Wolf, Empress, Inquisitor. It is easier to become a thing of legend than to wear your own face. Legends do not feel.”

Eyes look down into the turbid water, thick with dirt and blood. It is it the day she decides her own fate - she will become something that ascends mortal chains too, a monster of her own making that will rend the world with teeth and nail until she holds him in her jaws, and she will make sure he feels it.

* * *

“Move atta the way!”

She catches her hood from falling back as someone barrels through the thick crowd beside her. Elven pack into the capitol’s square to witness the executions firsthand. Her eyes scan across the Arbitrators lining the palace’s steps, up to the wooden platform where the guilty are bound and kneeling. They are not blindfolded, no blood stains the ground beneath them - Fen’Harel’s justice is merciful, if death can be named such.

The assembled hush as he materializes from the palace and climbs the steps to carry out the sentence. Without thinking, she begins to push her way forward, gaze locked on him. Armor shining, fur soft and shifting in the breeze, back held straight and jaw set. He speaks and the deep timbres of his voice make her frantic heart skip, but she does not stop walking. He is alone, his guards too far away to reach him in time if someone were to leap upon the platform and attack. All she would need is a second. She tires of waiting, of planning and playing by her adviser’s rules. She wants _her_ justice now even if it will mean her death today too. 

A hand reaches for the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. She’s so close she can see the individual badges upon Fen’Harel’s chest, hear the way his gauntlets creak as he shifts to face the accused. When she’s about to break the plane of revelers someone grabs hold of her elbow and pulls her back. She gasps, wrestling against the force, and in those few seconds her moment slips away. The crowd begins to shout and jostle around her and she looks up to the platform to the see the three elves turned to stone, their bodies beginning to flake away in the breeze until there is nothing left - the Dread Wolf included. 

“No!” She turns back to her assailant and finds a face claimed by Dirthamen. “You, why-”

“He would have killed you and all would have been lost. Do you think you are the first to try? Do not waste your life on something so hopeless.” The Dalish elf speaks with a rolling accent, a thing that tugs at her memory with each syllable. 

“I…do I know you?”

“Once. My name is Taliesin. Please, all I ask is that you give me a few minutes. There will be little more than that before they realize you’ve escaped.”

“And if I don’t?” 

“Then I won’t stop you the next time.” He holds something up to her, a rock of amethyst nestled in gold and she knows what it is - a memory crystal. “Have you believed all their stories? Has no small part of you wondered if things were different, felt this nagging doubt you couldn’t explain? They have been lying to you from the beginning and I can prove it. If you want to know me, if you want to know yourself, you must see what this holds.” 

“Fine, just a few minutes,” she finally agrees but she keeps her fingers wrapped around her dagger just in case. 

Taliesin sighs with relief. “Good, come this way. You won’t regret it.”

She doesn’t, even as the truth makes her fall to her knees and weep, as her world collapses and explodes into fragments she can’t recognize anymore. There is pain and there is rage, but the heavy anchor of loss is something that drags her down into the depths. A new vow is made - she will become a monster, but it will not be to see him buried, to see him torn to shreds and splayed open for her revenge. She will destroy herself to see them freed.

* * *

“Fen’Lin, it’s begun.”

She rouses herself from the waking dreams and turns to greet the messenger who enters her tent. They wear stitched armor, odds and ends of material that will last little against the broad and thick defenses of the Elvhen, but it is the pride and conviction on their face that is the greatest weapon. She follows them out into the dying sunlight night to find a rows of elves in similar attire, although some wear stolen sets from Halamshiral, Montsimmard and the other cities. It is a patchwork contingent held together by the tenacity of the Dalish and she is the master at the loom. Most will likely be dead before the moon peaks, plucked from the weave of this war, but she would let all Thedas drown in blood and ride the tide up to his tower if needed for the chance that when the sun rises it will dawn upon a new beginning. Not just for the Elvhen and Elven, Qunari, Shemlen and Children of the Stone, but for _them_. 

Briala steps to her side, face covered in a black mask although there are now no more secrets between them. “The Elven inside the city have begun to revolt and our force is now attacking the main gate. There will be no greater opportunity than this.”

She thought of simply walking into the capitol for he will not strike her down now, but the city no longer belongs to Fen’Harel. No one has seen him since he disappeared behind doors that refuse to open no matter the spell or strength used. It is Abelas and the others that hold control and she knows she would never make it to the keep before a knife found its home in her back. They will have to find a way in with subterfuge and distraction. 

There are no compelling speeches made. With a wordless signal they make their way in silence towards the edge of trees providing cover. The road into the secondary gate is too open but Fen’Lin does not balk at the sight. She moves to stand in the middle of her ranks and pulls magic from the air, weaving her cloaking spell into a blanket to hide them all.

“Move,” she grits out between clenched teeth, hands already beginning to shake with the effort to keep the power in place. They make it a few steps beyond the gate before it shimmers out of existence.

“It’s the Blood Wolf!” comes the cry almost immediately and she does not stop to see how many of her people fall to subdue the guards. 

Briala and a dozen others race behind her as she cuts through the Elven district towards the tower at the city’s center. The smell of smoke reaches her before the screams. They come across a large courtyard swarming with people clashing with fists and steel and magic as Arbitrators battle back a heavy throng of her people. When the Elven see her they chant her name, voices and violence growing, bodies surging forward with renewed purpose. 

She stops to slay as many as she can, shouts for the crowd to follow her for justice, for freedom, for vengeance for their pain and the deaths of Reiveth and Nevaelathsan. They were right - martyrdom is a compelling force. With every smoldering block passed she accumulates more followers until the stones beneath her feet shake and the sound of their thunder is a loud drum banging inside her ears. They roar into the capitol’s center, undeterred by the heavy line of gold plated sentinels that await.

“Never again shall we submit!” the Elven shout, some faces carved with vallaslin, the others with hard lines, but all willing to spend the last drop of their blood to defy another empire. 

Fen’Lin charges ahead, morphing into the scarlet beast of terror and teeth, howling wrath and ruin into the night’s sky as they collide in crackling waves of magic and metal. A blind need takes over in the throes of battle, a savagery made of all her hurts, hopes, disappointments and dreams. What injuries she sustains are not felt as only this hunger takes hold. She thinks of friends and family lost, of wounds that will never heal, of Taliesin laying cold and her heart burned to cinders, and tears into the Elvhen without remorse, darkening and drenching her fur in the viscera and blood. This is what they made her for, after all.

“Stop, Fen’Lin! Now! We must go now!” Briala’s voice finally snaps her from the battle lust as the rogue waves to catch her attention. 

Fen’Lin gives a shake of her massive head and lets the spell fall away. Together they cross the courtyard and sneak through foliage and over walls to a secluded part of the palace. There is a small gate half hidden by leaves and clever architecture, something locked most days, but they find the handle easily gives way to their demands. It leads into a passageway barely light by fledgling fire and yet it is enough for them to navigate through the bowels of the structure and to higher levels. 

“We don’t have much time. We likely wasted too much out there,” Briala says. “And you’re bleeding everywhere. Why-”

“Don’t,” Fen’Lin’s voice is a warning, some of the wolf still rolling inside. 

“Here.” They come across a door along the way chalked with the drawing of a daisy and open it to find themselves at the end of a long hall lined with alabaster pillars and painted glass. “This way. His rooms should be the next level up.” 

They make it halfway to the doors before two figures detach from the darkness. Abelas and Merrill block their advance, the tops of their glowing staves shifting downward to face them as they approach. She is thankful to see Veranna absent, a fight that would take too long to end, and wonders what has become of her forces invading the city. Has the Elvhen huntress slaughtered them all? Will she fail in making their sacrifices count?

“You will go no further,” Abelas says. “Dis-”

A bolt of lightning hits him in the temple, shaking through his body with a sharp force, before it drops him to the ground. Merrill turns to face his unconscious form with a hand on her hip and a smile. “You were right about me all along, hahren. Happy? Oh you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“Is he dead?” Briala asks.

“I don’t think so. I was worried you wouldn’t make it. I thought maybe the way had been locked again, but I couldn’t leave Abelas to check.”

“We were delayed. Is there anyone else waiting?”

“No, just him. If you can get passed the door that is.”

“I can get passed the door,” Fen’Lin answers and moves beyond the elf.

“I-wait!” Briala takes off her mask and wears an expression of sentiment and shame beneath. She could tell her that she’s forgiven, that there were two people in this world that made her feel loved despite the lies, but Fen’Lin remains silent. “We will hold them for as long as we can. Good luck.”

It is quiet as she takes the spiraling stairwell up. Through the windows she can see the fires below, but the sounds of rebellion are muted to her ears being so high up. History is being made beneath her and she thinks instead of their history. Of drying paint and broken skies, of love lost and hope forgotten. Of lives half lived without each other. 

It shouldn’t have happened this way. She will make sure that it doesn’t.

With one final step the door to Fen’Harel’s suite comes into view. It is open for her, trails of flickering light dancing across the floor and beckoning entry. She finds him sitting on the ground by the far wall. There are scattered pieces of parchment, like a pathway beneath her feet as she walks to him, sketches scratched out and crumpled. She sees pieces of herself in each but never the whole, pieces of a life that could never exist as anything but charcoal and dreams. When she is close to him, close enough to see the paint smeared across his hands and clothes, she looks up to see what the Dread Wolf has been doing locked in his tower. 

It is a mural - a gift for her this time. A giant eluvian hovers in the background, but the main focus is upon the pair kneeling in water lilies and spindleweed. A corona of green encircles them as they kiss at the top of the world and the end of a journey. It is meant as a final goodbye, but she can see the way he desperately clutches to a hand and holds fingers in hair, blue eyes open to remember it all. 

“ _Var lath vir suledin_. I did not believe, could not…” He pivots around, face crinkling with concern at her current state, and she hates him still. She always will. He may have not been the executioner, but he is guilty all the same for not believing, for giving up on his promises, on _her_. She is tired of hatred, however, of this wrath that has commanded her for so long. Now she only wants him to truly see her, to see what became of a love that would not die.

She peels off her bloodied and torn jacket and drops it to the floor. Arms extend and with a burst of magic the white paint and grime drift away from her skin to show the golden hues beneath. Fingers reach up to grab hold of her heavy mask. She takes a breath, hesitating here at the edge of everything. There will be no coming back, one way or another. For her or for him, for them both most likely, but she has to try.

Slowly, she lifts the mantel of Fen’Lin up and away.


	9. Penance

Somehow she is real. Wonderfully, impossibly real.

He spent hours in this tower trying to capture her eyes, her nose, and everything he could imagine pales in comparison to the sight of her. His heart begs him to rise and greet her properly, but his body refuses to move. If she decided to strike him down he doesn’t believe he could move an inch nor does he wish to - this is his moment of judgement and he will accept whatever fate she chooses. 

“There is another translation of Fen’Lin besides Blood Wolf. Do you know what it is? The blood of the wolf.”

And he sees it. There is so much of another in her- the shape of her face, the black of her hair, the bright yellow eyes that watch him carefully, but he sees himself in the freckles across her nose and the soft dimple in her chin. He sees but he cannot  _believe_. 

She drops to her knees before him and offers a smile that’s all her own, a small thing full of irony and disbelief too. “Hello, Father.”

They stare at each other, father and daughter, wolves without masks. He thinks back to their last meeting. When the necklace pulled him to Vir Dirthara he could barely stand against the shock of it all. He saw her suspended there and thought his suspicions confirmed, that Keela had survived against the odds of his transgressions. That she was saving him yet again even when calling for his aid. 

But when she spoke without the aid of magic he knew the truth. Beneath the mask was someone he dared not think of for years lest the pain of it turn him to madness. It is not his vhenan, but she still lives on. Their love still endures just as she promised. “I do not… _how_?”

“She never took me to that meeting in Redcliffe. She didn’t trust them. I was left with Taliesin outside the city but we were found regardless. They stole me away and after he woke up, he went to the inn and tried to dig through to find us. Through the fire  _they_  created.” She holds out her hands, turning them over. “His hands were burned from it. He thought I was dead too until a few years later.”

“They meant to use you against me.”

“There were many plans for me at first. To deliver me to you with a bow and a walking bomb inside my veins or for me to live long enough to gain your trust before I slashed your throat. Some were more creative. Early on they discovered that I could pass through your locked eluvians. They-” She looks away, wipes the heels of her hands against her legs. “There were plenty of experiments to see what my blood could do.” 

His eyes travel across her skin, seeking out old scars and blemishes amidst new cuts and bruises from tonight’s battle. How much horror has she lived through to reach him?  His stomach tightens at the thought and he wishes he had spared a few more minutes disposing of the Red Knights’ leaders for what they put her through.

“Nevaelathsan used me to gather materials for him that you hid away in the Deep Roads and further. They helped you build the eluvians where you imprisoned the Evanuris. A fitting end for the Dread Wolf, not dead or alive. Apparently death doesn’t stop your kind very well. When all the searching was done I would become bait. This-” she points to the wolf’s mask, “thing was my idea. To taunt you with your own image and past. I wanted to drive you mad with it, to make you suffer with the reminder of all you’d done.”

“A clever thing, for it certainly garnered my attention.”

Her spine straightens a little at his praise. “Yes, well, my goals changed.”

He thinks about the drawings and gifts, of her cat and mouse game. There was never any cruelty. Her every action only gave him hope. “Why?”

There is a pause as her composure begins to crack. “I was supposed to lure you into the eluvian and if it meant being trapped in there forever too it was a sacrifice I was willing to make. Because…because for  _sixteen years_  they made me believe my father killed my mother and tried to kill me too. I-I hatedyou, hated myself. I was the spawn of a murderer and whore and I…”

She looks away again and inhales deeply, gaze beginning to glisten despite the determined set of her jaw. Regret builds hot in his own eyes and he does not try to hold the tears at bay. He desperately wants to lean forward and console her, to tell her she is wrong,  _they_ were wrong, but he keeps his hands balled into fists at his sides. He has no right despite the blood they share. 

With a sharp motion she pulls a small crystal from her pocket and rolls it between her fingers. “Taliesin found me, told me the truth, and gave me this. It’s her memories. It is how I know about everything, how I know my family. Why I changed my plans. I want to save us. I’m trying to save us.”

“Fen’Lin, I-” 

“No! That’s the name they gave me. It’s not who I am.” She holds out the stone to him. “The last memory was always meant for you, I think.”

Using a memory crystal is much similar to walking through the visions of the Fade. As his fingers wrap around it he closes his eyes to let the magic seep inside and images open like blooming petals before his mind. He recognizes every one. He watches himself grab Keela’s hand and thrust it towards the rift, dance through dreams and spirits in Halamshiral, kiss her beneath a waning sun and snow. There are harder things too - arguments over wardens and qunari, her anger as she tries to understand his rejection, but these things only make him love her more. Her stubbornness, her will, her all-encompassing presence that made him believe in things thought unthinkable. Every memory fills him with the notion that this, everything they were, was something worth fighting for.

The final one is something he doesn’t know. 

The room is modest, wooden walls and floors, barely any trappings save for shifting curtains and dried flowers hanging from the bed’s headrest. His attention is drawn to its occupant. Keela rests with a mountain of pillows at her back and something nestled within her arms. He sees a crown of dark hair, a little fist tucked close to a tiny nose. The babe slumbers but he knows if their eyes were to open they would be a startling color, amber caught in the sunlight. 

“You should have been here. She’s perfect. She has your chin and it is much cuter on her.” Keela laughs, the sound wavering with the thickness of emotion. Her smile is something of awe and joy despite her fatigue and the shadows of old wounds. She moves her fingers through new, soft hair, wipes away the drops of saline that fall from her eyes and anoint their child. “You should have been here, Solas. I…I don’t want do this without you.”

He tries to speak to tell her he is here, to move forward and kiss her hands in supplication, but the magic only lets him see what he never should have missed. There can be no changing what has come and gone - he can be here now, for her, for their daughter, and it is a calling that he can give all his heart to this time.

The door creaks open and ushers Taliesin in. “The midwife’s gone. Said she’ll be back tomorrow morning with some remedies and blankets.”

“We should leave before then.”

“Are you aware that you have recently given birth?”

“Yes and soon all of Thedas will know it too. You should not have called for her-”

“Basta,” he says the command with affection. “I paid her well enough that we should have a few days of peace. I will not let anything happen to either of you. You have my word. Rest. In any case she cannot greet the world without a proper name, no? Have you decided?”

She leaves a gentle kiss upon a crinkling brow and whispers the name. The memory ends and throws Fen’Harel back into the present. He comes up gasping for air, searching for yellow eyes that he doesn’t know but cherishes all the same. His body is heavy with the weight of this knowledge pressing upon him, of just how much Keela truly loved him. 

He swallows the ache to taste this miracle on his tongue. “Fenera?”

“And am I?” It comes out quiet with a breath held like a wish. “Am I your dream?”

Hands pull her in for a crushing embrace. Perhaps he shouldn’t, but they have already lost so much time and he can’t- he cannot let this go. She is rigid against him, shocked into place, and he only holds her closer because of it. “Yes.  _Yes._ ”

Her breath escapes in a whimper, the tension melting away until she is all but clinging to him in support, and he feels her tears collect in the crook of his shoulder. He tells her how sorry he is, how incredibly proud and amazed he is at what she has become. The Blood Wolf was something larger than life, but Fenera is something small in his arms, so much younger than he first believed, and he promises she will never walk alone again.  He tells her loves her last. It is true - he loves her, instantly and irrevocably, with every part of his mending soul. 

At that she slowly moves away and swipes an impatient hand at the water on her face. “I-”

A great bang echoes up the staircase. Together they stand to face the violent shouts and twisting fire, red and angry, that dance up the walls and prelude the Elven coming for their justice. They are out of time. “It will take me a moment to replace the spell. They will be upon us before then. If you could-”

“Wait.” Fenera grabs his hand and stops him. “You have an eluvian here, right? Let’s go.”

He gives a brief thought to the precious items littered across the room, the mural made, but there is nothing more precious than the hand holding his. “To where?”

“Home.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

As they emerge through the Skyhold’s eluvian, Fenera gasps at his side, hunched over with a hand clutching the fabric above her chest. “I’m all right,” she says to his worryings. “I said I could go through your eluvians. I never said it was easy. I have both of your blood in my veins and it’s like I get torn apart each time.”

“You could have told-”

“It doesn’t matter.” With a steadying breath she straightens and shakes away the last trembles of pain. “Come on.”

They amble their way through the main hall and rotunda, through gardens and gatehouses. There seems to be no rush nor designs to their moments here, but he notes how she runs her fingers over everything they come across, as if memorizing their shape and feel. For a while they do not talk. He is content to simply watch her for he is lucky enough that she now allows him to share the same space. He knows he is not forgiven, if such a thing can be earned through the muck of his sins, but her willingness to try is a cleansing thing all on its own.

She catches him staring at her in marvel and gives a quick laugh, her mouth forming into a shape so similar to her mother’s clever grin that Fen’Harel falters a step. “I spent a lot of time here. Rifling through all her things you left in the tower, sitting in the middle of the rotunda. It felt…it felt like a home and the closest I could get to being with either of you. I never told them you kept the orb here. I know they would’ve wanted me to steal it.”

There are so many things he wants to ask her all jumbling for space in his throat that it is difficult to fit a single one through. She would have only been five when Keela was killed. What does she remember of her mother? Where did the Red Knights take her afterwards? Was there any joy in her life? Friends, music, laughter? He knows she enjoys to paint if their journey has been any indication, but there are a thousand unknowns he wishes to know.

“You look ready to burst.”

“I have many questions but there will be time for them.”

Her smile twists into something he can’t quite catch but the edge of it makes his skin prickle with unease. He follows her down into the depths of Tarasyl'an Te'las, through doors and passageways no one should know of save himself, but he is not surprised that she has discovered them. They enter the room far below Skyhold’s main courtyard and step into the morning light filtering in through the wide hole still left from years ago. 

“You almost caught me once before, you know. It was three years ago. I was in the tower and heard you coming up the stairs. I-” she laughs as she bumps passed him through the narrow doorway. “I hid under the bed until you left.”

His own mirth bubbles up at the thought only to quickly fade as her expression shutters into something serious. It is then he notices she holds the orb in her grasp. It should be an impossibility that she can at all and yet he thinks of her ability to travel through his defenses. 

“I wonder what would have happened if you found me that day.”

“What are you doing?”

Her expression is sharp, the final snarl of a defiant wolf caught without escape. “Something monstrous.”

She twists her hands and the device unlocks with a blast of energy that forces him back a step. Fenera lets out a cry, falling to her knees against the strain of holding on, but she does not let go. She is a soldier on the front lines facing a ferocious horde, hiding the horror and accepting it all the same. He moves to help or stop her, he cannot decide, but he knows he cannot abide the agony across her features.

“No!” she shouts and the desperation in it stops him. Her chin is lifted but he sees it tremble all the same, sees the fear and fever making her eyes wide. With shaking fingers she reaches in her satchel and pulls out a small vial that she uncorks with her teeth.

“I said I would pay any price, even yours. I’m sorry for what will be but you will endure it. For us, for me.” She pours the sparkling liquid atop the orb. 

He rushes forward but it is too late. The potion seeps into the swirling lines, changing them to a brilliant white that grows brighter and brighter until it is a blinding, unstoppable force. The air shakes, splits with a screeching power and her sickening screams. “Fenera!” he calls as the world is swallowed once again by the power of Fen’Harel’s legacy.

When he opens his eyes everything is darkened, still. Most of the orb lays shattered before him while he clutches a cold piece of it in his hands. The air feels strange, heavier, a half remembered feeling that he forgets about as soon as he hears her voice.

“Solas?”

Keela stands behind him, not in Fade but flesh that’s whole. Her armor is bloodied and beaten, arm intact and grip glowing from the anchor embedded in skin. He looks around to find himself not in the ruins of Tarasyl'an Te'las but that of a battlefield still raining down in dust and pebbles. The sky holds a fresh scar, a banner of her victory over the Breach and its creator.

He has been transported back through time to the world before the Veil’s fall by a magic that should not be possible, should not be allowed. The ramifications of such a thing makes sweat break out upon his brow. All those years, all those people born and changed, futures that might never exist now, all of it sacrificed and gone to bring him here. To give him another chance. And Fenera-the focus falls from his grasp with a loud thunk. “No...” 

A hand drops down upon his shoulder as Keela comes to sit beside him. There is no anger or defeat in her eyes, no long suffering wounds he has clawed into her soul - only concern and confusion tempered by wariness, and he remembers that only a few days ago did he dare try to cut the threads between them thinking they were mere twine when they are something unbreakable.

“Solas?” she says his name again, _his name_ , and for a moment all his sorrow lifts with the sudden realization that she is alive. She is alive and here.  She is real, this simple touch felt more than decades of others in a world without hope.  

A gasp flies from her mouth as he takes her in his arms. She struggles to understand and he thinks of Fenera’s reluctance at his touch at first too, and the weight of her memory pulls loose a broken sob. He tells Keela the same things, apologies and declarations half slurred by his insurmountable grief and gladness, says her name over and over like a chant to bring him towards the light. His sins are already too numerous to count, a thick vine that strangles him and the world in its grasp. How can he live knowing what has been done?

Keela does not untangle herself when he tells her he loves her. Her grip only tightens into his tunic and when she lifts her face to his her kisses heal and much as they hurt. Her laughter fills his mouth, a breath of solid strength that makes him believe again that it was no accident his power found its way into her palm. The future should have always been hers to mold. “And I love you, you fool.”

If this is to be his penance for the opportunity to set things right then he will do it for her, for Fenera, for even if it means she may never exist it is a sacrifice she was willing to make when she knew he could not, would not. A choice, a last gift, that will echo for eternity and he will carry its consequences for her. He will endure it, if only for the small hope that there might still be a world with his freckles and Keela’s eyes.

“Please, what’s happened?” she asks and he kisses her eyelids, her brow, tastes the bitter water in the corners of her eyes. She weeps even though she doesn’t understand, but she will - there will be no more lies from Fen’Harel.

“Everything. There is so much I must tell you.” 

Solas tells her that he loves her one more time, and then starts from the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****The main story ends here. The following chapters are a sequel, Aftermath, and details the effects of Fen'Lin's rebellion. If you want open ended/mostly happy conclusion to the tale, don't read any further...if you want the painful truth, keep reading!****


	10. Aftermath - Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath is a continuation of the main story and the results of Fen'Lin's rebellion. It doesn't need to be read, but if you're wondering how everything works out(or doesn't!), keep going!

He tells her about his past and she believes him.

It takes some time - Cassandra storms up the steps with sword and shield blazing, eyes scanning for danger, and only finds two weeping elves kneeling amongst the shattered remains of an ancient artifact. It is the sudden appearance of Cole that rends them apart. He appears in a shower of shadows and sparks, body shaking and shimmering like heat above ground although there is a cold breeze coming from him.

“There’s thousands of voices but they’re not saying anything. Real and not real, alive and dead. No, not dead. Never was, never feeling but I feel it. No no no! I don’t understand! What did you do?”

“Peace, Cole.” Solas closes his eyes and takes a breath, and the shivering stops. The spirit boy lets out a noise of relief before his gaze narrows, mouth turning down in a grimace like she’s never seen.

“You did not deserve it,” he spits out.

A nod, short but heavy. “I know.”

“What is going on?” Cassandra asks.

“There is no more danger for the moment. Perhaps we should concentrate on the larger matter at hand?” Solas suggests. 

He is right, of course. There are orders to give and plans to be made in the wake of Corypheus’ defeat. Victory is only the beginning of another journey. They are all so tired but there is a buzz of excitement that travels up and down the ranks of the Inquisition, a joy growing beneath a quiet, scarred sky, and yet hers is tempered by the way Solas’ and Cole’s voices echo in her head. It is almost dawn by the time they settle into their tents to rest for the return journey to Skyhold. This is no rest for her although it is an inconvenience she is well versed in by now. Solas takes her hand and guides her into the forest away from camp until the fires are distant smudges through the trees. 

“What happened with Cole?”

His fingers shake in hers and when he turns to face her she recoils. He looks tortured, unsure, and she’s thrown back into that glade all over again. There are no half-truths and distance masquerading as kindness this time, however. “He saw what I am about to tell you. Keela…”

He moves to touch her face but stops, stricken again by whatever overcame him before. She takes his hand and lifts it the rest of the way to press into her cheek, hoping that this touch might alleviate this pain. His expression only seem to grow sharper with shame because of it. “I want you to know-” he shakes his head, “I will accept any judgement you wish to pass and do whatever I must, if not for you then for Thedas, to make amends.”

“Solas, just tell me.”

His secrets are longer, heavier things than she could have ever imagined.

Perhaps it would be a more difficult thing to believe if her life wasn’t a fantastical story of its own. Everything is made easier with Mythal’s meeting fresh in her mind, the goddess’ endless well of knowledge confirming the fall of Evanuris and Elvhenan alike in a chorus of a thousand voices. The old stories were partially true, puzzle pieces put together in the wrong order but close to completion. Another legend stands before her now as flesh and blood and freckles that darken in the endless sun of the desert, and she finally knows him.

“After everything I had thought you might be Elvhen, but this…” 

Solas smiles and it seems a challenging thing to forge from the severe cut of his features. “You have always been clever. There were times when I hoped you would come to the conclusions on your own. As always, I ask too much of you.” 

Anger simmers low beneath her skin. “Did you think I would not understand?”

“I-" Pain shoots through his expression. "No. I knew that you would, but it was a burden I could not share. To confide in you might alter my course when I could not stray any further than I had. For the road ahead, it would be best for the both of us if we did not share the journey together.”

“I could have helped you. You should have trusted me.”

A quiet laugh sticks in the back of his throat. “Yes, I know. There is more.”

He tells her about his plans for the present, of an orb given and stolen at the same time, of her world burning in chaos to make way for his if needed, and even in this she is not surprised. His stubborn determination has always been in contest with her own and now she knows the full depths of his guilt. There are days when her shame makes her wish she could change everything - she can barely imagine how the burden of a thousand lives and years lost would break a gentle heart.

Her own seems to trip and fall, rattles against every bone in her chest on its way down to her stomach. His continuing answers cause clawing questions to scratch through her mind. “Why are you telling me this now? What’s changed? Is it because you wish for my help or because you no longer wish to go through with it?”  

It takes him a few moments to answer and with each passing second the talons dig in just a little further. “It is because I already have.”

“I don’t understand?”

He tells her about the future and it is something she cannot, will not, believe.

Her hand twitches as he describes the fate of the anchor but there are far worse revelations than the loss of her limb and betrayal found through eluvian after eluvian chasing qunari and scraps of clues. The description of the Veil’s demise and the following destruction makes her feel sick with the realization of her own failures. How could she let him succeed? Her body grows cold as he pauses, eyes watering and words choked, when he informs her of her own death at the hands of her people. He talks quickly after that, about his cold grief and the harsh times for the Elven, about a rebel that rises from the ashes and reminds the Dread Wolf of his heart. 

“I believed it was you for some time,” he says. “But the truth…”

Her mind is reeling with the impossibilities of his tale and yet she cannot help her curious nature. “Who was it?”

Eyes plagued with pain meet hers and she wishes she could take the question back. “It was our daughter.”

“Our…what? Our  _daughter_?”

“You were with child when the Veil was sundered. I did not know until afterwards and I was led to assume you were both killed in the Redcliffe explosion. She was raised by others to see me dethroned, but after learning it was her caretakers that took your life instead sought to change fate. It was her doing that returned me here through some magic I do not know and the use of my new focus.”

“I…” Keela shakes her head and feels all his confessions strike against the insides of her skull. She stops herself from asking if this is all some joke, even entertains the idea that this is an awful vision of a demon. Or perhaps she perished in the fight with Corypheus and has landed into an unforgiving afterlife. Fingernails dig into the palms of her hands, the smell of pine and cool air fills her lungs - this is real, but it can’t be.

Solas reaches into one of his pockets and rolls a stone between his fingers. “I was surprised to see it survive, but it must have been protected by the spell somehow. I am sure she knew you would require more proof than my words alone.” 

“What, what is…” Sense is leaving her and she feels her palms sweat even as a cold grip seizes inside. 

“It is a memory crystal, made by your hand. I do believe you are familiar with them. It contains your memories beginning from the explosion at the Conclave until-” Solas retracts his hand. “Forgive me, I should not have forced all of this upon you so quickly. It is…”

He looks away from her and into the night. There is no hiding behind carefully crafted masks now - she can see the lines of fatigue upon his face, the misery and fear mixing with the violet patterns in his eyes. She cannot believe this future, but if it is true then he has lived it, caused it, and bears the weight of more than one world shattered beyond all repair.

“What have you done?” she whispers and his body jolts as if she’s struck him. He does not answer her, seems incapable of forming words beyond the tightening of his lips. Never has he been so exposed and open, not even when Wisdom thrashed and perished, not even when he has confessed his love or given into his desires. With a strangled sound, Solas sinks to the ground at her feet, bowed and broken. She watches his cheeks glisten in the dim light of veilfire and his features twist in shadows and sorrow, body hunching even further like he is being pulled down into a thick, hungry mud. 

They are both in something inescapable and she feels the pull too.

There is no doubt that she will regret what comes next but it does not stop her from kneeling down and holding out her hand. If this is real, she must find it out for herself.  "I…I am sorry, vhenan. It should have been me. It should have been me.” 

She takes the crystal and before she can convince herself otherwise, takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Magic tickles up her spine and fills her head. The black in front of her eyes ignites in swirls of colors that quickly form into familiar shapes. She watches herself grab hold of the orb, defeat Envy’s deception, lift the Inquisitor’s sword high above Skyhold. Every important moment and battle of the Inquisition flies by her gaze, but the moments with Solas appear brighter, clearer, like they must not be forgotten. She relives a kiss in the Fade, their first night beneath the monoliths of the Exalted Plains, a quiet moment as he wipes away her tears beneath the graves of her ancestors. 

Then there are things she does not remember. She watches herself at the bottom of the stairs glancing backwards after the battle with Corypheus to see Solas gone. She travels far into the Deep Roads and narrowly escapes an ax, but it leaves a permanent mark all the same. Years seem to pass, filled with assassins and anger and the gentle touch of someone else, and Solas doesn’t appears again until she’s breaking apart at his feet. He wears strange armor, speaks of all the things he’s told her today, and leaves with a kiss and a promise that feels as empty as the void growing in her heart.

Everything has been true and her denial chips away with every scene.

Solas is in almost every memory after that. She finds him beneath the ground in ancient ruins where they fumble in desperation, catches him within the tower of Skyhold for a last embrace. She fights against Abelas and watches her world die and split apart for the advance of another. Cole disappears into the wind, tattered but happy to find release. She witnesses the evidence of her pregnancy for the first time as she turns to face Solas and they are both broken things beneath a stitched together sky. 

The next memory is of her cradling a newborn babe in her arms. She sees a tuft of blackened hair before Keela unfurls her fingers around the stone and hurtles back into the present. In a rush she rises to her feet and stares at the magical device in horror. “No…no! No, this cannot be real.”

“Keela-”

“No!” She turns and disappears into the darkness and doesn’t look back. The sliver of the moon above is enough for her eyes to see but even so she stumbles into leaves and tree trunks, barely catches herself from falling from the threat of twigs and rocks bellow. It is made all the more difficult by the burning tears in her eyes and the burning fire in her chest, for she cannot catch her breath for all the screams building inside. 

She doesn’t know how far she’s traveled when she can finally go no further. The world is quiet here, empty save for the sky of a billion diamonds glistening bright, and she tries to picture her worries as far away as those other places. There is no Fen’Harel. There is no conspiracy or agents, or a Veil that needs ripped apart. There is no loss and scars etched into her heart and skin.  _There is no child_. If she closes her eyes she might believe it but the memory crystal is still in her hand, the rough edges having left marks into her palm. It is evidence of a future she refuses to believe, of a betrayal so deep that she fears she will never see the sky again if she gives into this knowledge. Keela glares at the gem- such a small thing, to ruin her forever. She wishes she could let it go, bury it beneath the dirt here and forget it ever touched her mind, but the damage is done. 

With a trembling cry she lets herself succumb to the magic of the crystal. A cozy cottage spirals back into view and she watches an elf enter the room with Dirthamen’s lines upon his face. She does not know him, but she knows the accent of her birthplace that flows from his lips. All she can really concentrate on is the figure wrapped up in her arms held like a precious gift. The babe’s eyes are closed and she wonders about their color - are they a blue full with subtle colors or her own bright yellow?

'I will not let anything happen to either of you. You have my word,' the other elf says. 'Rest. In any case she cannot greet the world without a proper name, no? Have you decided?'

Her future self, with the scar upon her face and the evidence of a war lost in the slump of her body and the gleam of her false arm, kisses a smooth brow with a warm smile that speaks of hope and love and the possibility for something wonderful in the ashes of world gone. 'Fenera.'

Keela lets the stone fall from her fingers and the wooden walls give way to the open sky once more. Her denial wavers, a blanket that kicks and bucks as the heavy wind of undeniable truth picks it up and carries it away. Something else reaches out to cover her now, now that she can no longer hide. It is hot, burning where she was cold, demands she strike out when she was caught standing still. As rage races beneath her skin and scorches her veins, she turns her gaze back towards the way she came. Her throat aches as she forces a name through her lips. “ _Solas_.”


	11. Aftermath - Anger

She finds him exactly where she left him.

The sun is well risen by the time she marches back into the forest and there will be little opportunity left before Cassandra or Cole come looking for them. She doesn’t need all that much time to say what is burning on her tongue. The challenge will be saying it and not disintegrating to ashes in the process.

She does not mask her approach and finds Solas waiting for her, face cast in the shadows of morning and despair, and she does not miss how he straightens himself in preparation for her arrival. She notices many things about him now - she knows too many things, things that no one should have to live with, that no one should know. She even knows his suffering is greater than her own in many ways, but looking at him now she cannot _care_.

“I don’t even recognize the person in this,” she says, holding up the memory crystal. “How could I name my child _the wolf’s dream_  after everything you had done to me, to my world? If you ever loved me you should have killed me instead of letting me turn into that!”

He shakes his head, mouth opening to reply, but she cuts him off. “No, you couldn’t. You cannot let anything go, can you? You take everything until there is nothing left. Did you even try to stop her?”

“I did not know her intentions. I tried-”

“You should have tried harder! How could you-” Keela doesn’t finish the question. She knows the answer already. He could destroy Thedas, betray her trust, break her heart for the same reasons she allowed the Chargers to die. There is no personal sacrifice great enough when it comes to what must be done to save your world. It is what she once believed too, what she had to believe to be able to face the reflection in the mirror each day. Everything she has ever done as Inquisitor only reinforced his dedication and the guilt of this realization is like lead in her stomach.

She is foolish for even considering that she might have won him over in the end, but their _child_ - “If I had told you I was pregnant would you have stopped your plans?”

He cringes and it is all the answer she needs. It is obvious she knew the answer in that memory too- there can be no other reason she can think of as to why she would not have told him. The grass beneath her feet begins to burn slowly, browning and curling as the fire inside her escapes her thin control. She has never lost her hold upon her magic, but she sees the edge of chaos creeping closer than it ever has before. 

“And now it will never happen.”

Despite the threat of smoking rising around her Solas takes a step forward, hearing the break in her voice just as much as she did, and she wishes he had used this bravery when it mattered. That hope had been the thing he latched onto first instead of last. “That is not necessarily true.”

“Isn’t it? Do you know the day of her birth, Solas?”

Confusion passes over his features at the question. “Yes.”

“Do you know when she was conceived? The time of day? The hour?”

“Not anything so specific.”

Her voice is low as she steps closer to him. “What happens if the timing is wrong? What happens if we have another child that is not her? Can you imagine what knowing what was lost would do to us? What happens if it _is_ her? How could either of us look at her and know what was sacrificed?”

His confusion has shattered into understanding and fear. She feels it too, but she lets the rage rise above it all until the power of it hovers above her skin. The desire to let it all loose is a heavy thing, to let it shoot from her veins and consume the leaves and bark around her, consume them both. Anything would be better than this hollow hole growing where her dreams used to be.

She sees herself cradling her daughter in the memory. Such a beautiful thing, the one pure thing they ever made it seems. There is only this vision and a name. It happened but it didn’t and how can she mourn someone who never existed? Even so, the loss of it all is like a sharp knife against skin. It wedges itself between the two of them, between something that she was beginning to believe could endure anything.

“There are _considerations_ , Solas. Least of all the fact that the thought of letting you touch me ever again makes me sick.”

The word slaps through the air and Solas turns his head away, as if she truly has struck him. She knows she is being cruel but the pain inside her is becoming too large to combat, snowballing down a bitter slope towards a catastrophic end. She had the chance for a family, she had child and now- the fire beneath skin grows stronger, warping the air around her body.

“I could forgive so many things, but this…what did you think was going to happen? That I would jump into your arms after learning that you threw away everything I ever gave you?”

“What would you have had me do otherwise?” he asks with a heat of his own and meets her gaze again with misery pooling at the surface of his blue eyes. “Would you rather I kept it all from you?”

 _Yes!_  her heart shouts as everything else denies it. He trusted her with the truth, he trusts her finally, but it seems too much and too late now. “I would have the Dread Wolf pay for his own mistakes for once.”

“As would I! If there was a way-”

“Don’t. Don’t do anything. You have done more than enough.”

“Inquisitor!” Their time is up. With a deep breath, Keela wraps the mantel of her station like a thick barrier around her. Although it offers no comfort it is the only protection she has left against horrors no person should ever need face. Solas watches, his own expression split open, and with a twist of ugliness she hopes he won’t be able to hide behind his own title so easily now.

“Don’t speak to me unless I ask you to, don’t even come near me. For once in your life leave me be, Solas.” Keela walks towards the sound of Cassandra’s voice and doesn’t look back.

* * *

The others notice the change in her but do not comment on it. Their confusion is understandable. She and Solas went from estranged lovers to holding hands and staying close to one another after Corypheus’ defeat, and now to this dead silence even worse than before. After everything they’ve faced together, the Inner Circle knows better than to ask. Even Sera takes one look at her countenance chiseled from stone and snaps her jaw shut. What should have been a lively journey back to Skyhold turns into something more like a funeral march. For all her strength, Keela has never been good at pretending- that is _his_ specialty, after all.

When they reach the fortress she rolls her shoulders back and lets herself crumble at bit. It is easier to smile as her people cheer and clap for their victorious Inquisitor and when she stands upon the steps and addresses the crowd a different type of pressure pushes on her chest, something born of pride. Even if Corypheus wasn’t the threat they thought she won’t let Solas take away what has been done. They mattered, she mattered.

The main hall is a flurry of celebration, the long tables filled with mouth watering food and the corners sprouting joyous music that bounces off the walls. Drinks are pushed into her hand and for once she welcomes the taste of wine - it loosens her laughter, softens her words, drops her into a haze where nothing can be thought of for too long. She speaks with her advisers and her companions about their accomplishments and shared experiences, of how much they have all changed under the all seeing eye of the Inquisition, and for a time she manages to forget.

When the wine has worn off and the night has grown long, she finally notices Solas tucked away in the shadows. He stands by the statue next to Josephine’s office watching and she wonders if he has simply stood there all night instead of partaking. She’s surprised he isn’t squirreled away in the rotunda or off somewhere making plans to destroy her world again. Knowing the future, he could easily change his designs to make the end come quicker if he so wished. However, as she nears she can tell by the grey clouds in his eyes that he has spent the night thinking about only one thing.

“A word?” she says, a mimicry of his words and a smile on her lips. Keela doesn’t check to make sure he follows her up into the Inquisitor’s tower, but she can feel his gaze upon her like the weight of the hundreds of caresses given. She wants to scratch at her skin but instead digs her nails into her palms as she leads him onto the balcony. Dark night is giving way beyond the mountains, coating the horizon in a lighter blue, and the sight reminds her of looking up to see the light at the bottom of a pond.

Neither of them speak for a time. If she closes her eyes, she can easily remember another time they stood in the same place. She had been too caught up by the moment to catch all his words, forgot about them entirely when his lips made the blood in her veins sing in her ears. _It would be kinder in the long run_. She hears it now, loud and clear, but it is a mystery just who would have benefited more if he kept walking.

She is suddenly so very exhausted. Keela leans upon her wrists and bows her head, letting the curtain of her hair block his body at her side. After this she will collapse into her bed and stay there for as long as possible, until Josephine or Cullen come to collect her personally, but for now there is still a battle to be fought even if a war has been won.

“You aren’t powerful enough to bring the Veil down now, are you?”

“No, I am not. I spent a year after leaving the Inquisition amassing most of the needed magic to see it done. What I acquired from the battle with the qunari two years later was the final piece needed to begin.”

Her anger is quick to return. “The battle where you baited both me and the qunari to fight for you it seems, if I can read the memories of the crystal correctly.”

“I…yes.”

“If I decided to slit your throat right this moment would you be able to stop me?” He does not answer this time. She pictures his jaw clenching, eyes wandering to the mountains to collect himself. His hands likely clasping behind his back in a pose she once thought to be so open. Now she knows it for what is it- he makes a wall to keep the world out, to keep her out.

“Do you believe I intend to go through with my plans again?” he asks and it is her time to answer with silence. “There may indeed be some way to bring down the Veil safely and see the Elvhen restored but I will not seek it out on my own. I would put their fate in the hands of others trustworthy of the task, as I should have.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I am not certain. I was hoping-” he halts, letting his hopes drift upon the warming breeze. They both know what he longs for and it is a thing unreachable now and perhaps forever more. 

“Go get your power,” she says after a long pause and without looking knows his eyebrows have lifted in surprise. “If we want there to be change for the elves of my world and the ones from yours, then I imagine they will need more than the Inquisitor in their corner for the days to come. And there’s the matter of this.”

She finally turns to him and holds out her marked palm. “I would appreciate it if you would get this out of my hand before the whole thing is destroyed this time.”

“It might not be possible. I do not know of a way for it to be removed without irreparable damage. Do you truly believe I would have allowed you to suffer so needlessly if I could have prevented it?”

“It is very clear that I know so very little about you at all.” When he begins to protest she cuts him off with a slash of her hand. “Find a way. Don’t let it happen to me again. I…please.”

Solas takes a step forward and she does nothing to dissuade it. A hand lifts but doesn’t reach for her and for a blinding moment she wishes it would. She wants to feel his touch again, to forget all that has happened and be who they were before the truth became chains even harsher than the lies. They were bound together by them once- now they are pulling them apart. 

“If there is a way I will find it. You have my word.”

Light spills over the mountains to illuminate his face and she moves backwards, knowing that he has already broken his word and broken her world at the same time. “Your promises are ashes in my mouth, Fen’Harel.”

Both his hands come up as if he can ward it away and the part of her that still loves him screams to see the pain across his features. “Vhenan, _please_ -”

Enraged energy bursts from her, pushing him back a few steps even as she advances with finger pointed at his chest. “No! Do not call me that! I died because of you. In your future I never even knew my own child and you let her grow up without either of us. You let her die for us! You-I am _not_ your heart. I would rather carve out my own than to hear you say it ever again, do you understand?”

She can see he wants to fight back against her fury with his own and she cannot blame him. He has been the one to carry her death and the sins of his actions for years when she has only glimpsed them in a crystal. He was there to see his own magic rip apart their daughter when she doesn’t even know the color of her eyes. She knows all of this, but she refuses to carry his weight too. None of it would have happened if he would have just let his accursed pride go.

Keela turns away from him. “Get out. Out!”

He leaves, slowly. Leaves her with tears running hot down her cheeks, burning from her shame to allow them at all and from the world inside her rolling over into ruin. The dawn rises beyond the mountains and she watches it come alone once more.


	12. Aftermath - Guilt

She can’t stay here. 

A few days later Keela announces she will be heading to the far west. There are still rifts to be closed in the Hissing Wastes, Venatori to vanquish from its flowing dunes. There has been no time to squander with travelling so far when Corypheus’ threat was so near, but now she can attend to unknown tasks and finish others in the Western Approach and Forbidden Oasis. It is also convenient that it is the farthest she can run away from him.

“I must insist you let me accompany you,” Vivienne says, making it a demand without changing the softness of her voice, and Keela wishes she could keep her friend close but there are greater things in store for the First Enchanter than watching her stumble through sand and grief. 

“You can’t. They’re going to name you Divine within a few months.”

“Darling I appreciate your confidence in my chances but that is not something set in stone.”

“You will be Divine, Vivienne. I…do you trust me?”

“I’m offended you would even ask such a thing.”

“Here.” Keela hands her two notes, one with a blood red seal and another rolled up in twine. “Don’t open the sealed one until after your naming. The other is a question I’m hoping you will be able to answer.” 

She waits as Vivienne reads over her words and lists, watches as the other woman’s eyebrows lift with surprise and then turn down in thought. “This is a most interesting predicament, my dear. I can’t help wondering what your interest in it might be.”

“I cannot tell you-”

“Do you not trust _me_ , Inquisitor?”

“I do. I absolutely do. I would not come to you with this otherwise. I will tell you one day.”

“I will head to Val Royeaux then,” Vivienne announces after a pause. “If what you say is true then it is where I belong. There are a few colleagues of mine there that might able to assist with your query as well. I promise digression will be of the utmost importance.”

“Thank you.”

“If you should need for anything else, do not hesitate to contact me. And please,” Vivienne’s pats her hand, the gesture as caring as the look in her eyes, “take care of yourself, my dear.”

Keela doesn’t swear to do so- it’s not something she is sure she can keep to, and she is finished with lies. The day of their departure comes swiftly. Wagons make a long line out of Skyhold’s gates full of supplies for the western regions. It will be a slow, long journey and she feels like pawing at the ground along with her hart. 

“These ingredients will take time to get, Your Worship,” the tiny apothecary in front of her says, fingers quickly folding the parchment and hiding it away in their robes.

“Have the finished product sent to Griffon Wing Keep when it is finished with a note to summon me. No one else is to know about this, do you understand? No one.”

“Of course, I swear I’ll tell not a soul. I’ll keep no records neither. But ah, Your Worship, you know that it’s permanent? Once the decision is made-”

“I know it perfectly well. Thank you for your assistance.” Clearly dismissed, the apothecary gives a small bow and shuffles away. “Are we ready?”

“The wagons are prepared to depart on your order,” Cassandra announces.

“No final complaints about the journey ahead, Kadan? Or are you saving them all for the road?” Bull asks from atop his nuggalope.

Dorian meets her eyes for a quick moment, seeing the storm that’s taking over inside, before he looks away. “The only complaint I will have is if you insist to ride upwind with that creature.” 

“All right, let’s-”

“Inquisitor.” The whole courtyard seems to descend into silence around her at the sound of Solas’ voice. Cassandra and Dorian turn their steeds towards her, inching closer to offer support or defense, but Keela gives a subtle shake of her head. Her anger stays deep inside, her face a piece of perfect glass, for she knows he would not risk her wrath on something insignificant. 

“Head out!” she shouts to the caravan and, to her companions, “I will catch up.” 

They are hesitant to leave her but soon enough the courtyard is empty of all the extra commotion. When the last wagon rolls out of sight, Keela finally turns to face Solas. He seems fit to travel himself with a full pack at his back and wearing sturdy travel gear. 

“Going somewhere?”

“West, although not upon the same path as you. I should have begun my travels days ago, but I…” 

“What do you want, Solas?”

“The Iron Bull. Have you discovered his fate within the crystal?”

She has not touched the thing again since that night days’ ago. Her mind tries to sort through the many images she’s witnessed so far and remembers a fortress full of qunari and dragon fire, flashes of a battle she couldn’t concentrate on when it led to meeting him again. Cassandra and Dorian had been with her at the final eluvian, but Bull-

“What happens?”

Solas gestures for her to follow him to a more secluded area where their voices will not carry so far. “In a few months he will return to Seheron to report to his superiors personally. All communications will appear normal, however,” he pauses, shifting from one foot to another, “he will submit himself for reconditioning. The Iron Bull you know will cease to exist. During the events at the Winter Palace two years from now he acts as an agent for the Ben-Hassrath only and will turn on you during a crucial battle. You will be given no choice but to strike him down.”

Skyhold grows loud in her ears. It all comes together in a steady rush like a thunderous waterfall that drowns out the world and drowns her in it at the same time. She is thrown back to the Storm Coast and it is blood that rains down, soaking into her clothes and skin and filling her mouth. When Keela resurfaces she is braced against a stone wall in Solas’ shadow as he protects her from prying eyes and she is too overcome to push away from him, stunned to realize he gently holds onto her arm and has not caught fire from the act.

Her eyes watch him. His touch is just strong enough to feel through her coat but no more demanding than that and traitorous memories of heated moments full of more desperation flit across her mind. Solas moves his thumb, a small comforting gesture done a hundred times, but nothing is the same now. Keela pulls out of reach and straightens, remembering what they are now. 

“Did you know? Did you know what happened to him in Seheron?”

Solas’ gaze softens, not with added concern but with remorse. “I did.” And he did not see fit to tell her, to warn her, but for this her anger is pointed directly at only one person- herself. This is no doing of Fen’Harel, no part of a left over legacy still coming apart at the seams. This is her fault alone. “That future is no longer written as it once was, but if you allow him to return to the Qun it will likely repeat in some fashion. Urge him to remain with the Inquisition. For his sake, and for yours.”

Dorian’s too, she thinks. Was there anything in their future that wasn’t spoiled? “I will. I won’t let him go.”

“Good.” 

Keela’s fingers twitch at her side as they stand there, silent. The desire to run overcomes her, to ride fast and hard and escape from this knowledge even as she swears to see it through to the end. She will not fail Bull a second time. “Thank you for telling me.”

She doesn’t say goodbye, only gives him and nod and turns to swing upon her mount. “She had your eyes.” 

Her heart drops so suddenly she has to put a hand to her chest to see if it still beats. “What?” 

“Cole, he…it is difficult for him to avoid our thoughts even with my assistance. With both of us vacating Skyhold he will be in less conflict. I did not mean to pry, only the other day he informed me that you have been wondering-”

“Solas,” she hisses it with a sharp shake of her head, pleading for him to stop, and for once he grants her mercy. Instead he pulls a piece of parchment from a pocket and holds it out to her, fingers trembling slightly.

“For when you are ready to know.” She hasn’t felt ready for anything since the moment he looked upon her with love and relief, embraced her instead of pushing away after the final battle. If it is what she thinks it is etched in charcoal she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to face what has been lost. Even so she reaches out and takes hold of his offering. He doesn’t let go immediately, forcing her eyes to find his. “I am sorry, Keela. More than you can possibly imagine, for so many things.”

“I know,” she replies, quietly, brushing the tip of her finger against his and letting him see again a brief glimpse of the dying embers of her love for him before closing herself up once more. She tucks the drawing into her own pack and feels his touch grow cold. “Goodbye, Solas.”

* * *

The anger stays with every mile traveled but it doesn’t stay the same. Anger has always been an ally, a bolster of strength when the last enemy refuses to fall or a clear burst of energy when she needs a moment more to think. A weapon to build against others. Guilt mixes in with the fire, colder and sharper, edging her grief with spikes that strike out at her instead, poking and prodding and never giving her a moment’s peace.

Her actions do not help the matter. Every night she wraps fingers around the memory crystal to disappear into its images and relive past events, to travel through ones that haven’t happened yet. That won’t happen now. She begins to write them down into a book trying to create a timeline of events. It is sketchy at best considering the only landmark she knows for certain is the Exalted Council in two years’ time, but she has to make sense out of this senselessness somehow. 

Shadows grow beneath her eyes despite her best attempts to thwart them. She notices in the mornings as she tries to make herself presentable for the long day and covers them as best she can. She doesn’t want to become that wraith she’s glimpsed, that hollowed out, broken thing _he_ made her and yet this pain sticks to her like a disease. There is a war raging inside her, pulling her across lines never thought to be crossed, never thought possible, and although she has faced many a great enemy it is something entirely different to battle oneself. Orders grow curt, tempers shorter, but she is only disgusted with herself. 

She let a monster win because she loved it. What does that make her?

When they finally roll into the Hissing Wastes Keela imagines the caravan is grateful to be relieved of her, but her companions are not so fortunate and neither is the first group of Venatori they find. For a few minutes, the dark expanse around them is as bright as day as she unleashes fire and fury, turning the sand beneath her smooth like glass. She hunts, relentless like the hounds of guilt upon her heels, and those foolish enough to stand in her way are smote upon wastes. 

On their second week in the desert, her friends finally have enough. “Keela.”

Her feet dig into the sand as she comes to a sudden stop. Troubled thoughts sift away and she comes to realize they’ve trapped her, letting her sink down a dune with a rock wall at its base and their stone serious faces behind. A burst of indignation flares up at her fingertips although she is hardly surprised by this turn of events. It is only surprising they let her carry on like this for so long without reprimand.

“We have been patient but this must come to an end,” Dorian continues. “You’re going to get yourself killed or worse, get me killed. It’s time to confide in your confidants.”

“It’s got something to do with Solas and that crystal you keep in your pocket,” Iron Bull says and she resists the urge to reach for the memory stone. “Told you something pretty bad, right?”

“Please let us help you, if we can,” Cassandra adds. “To see you like this…” 

They have seen her far worse, or will- or would have, and she has seen the wreckage of their lives too. Bull, already dead before she casts the last spell that stops his heart. Cassandra, lost to a tide of Elvhen in a battle that never should have been fought. Dorian…she is still unsure of his fate, trapped on the other side of a wall Fen’Harel built where the sky burned, and it is her doing that saw him suffer there.

The sand sucks at her feet, pulling her down and down and down. “So you decided to cage me, force me to speak it?”

Dorian’s gaze softens, borders on regret. “No, we would never-”

“Get out of my way.” The threat is soured by the frustrated tears choking her voice, but she won’t let them fall to be soaked up into the parched ground. She can’t let herself fall, not again.

Dorian and Cassandra step apart and she charges through. She wanders the area for awhile, always within sight of the camp or a scout on the horizon, although she thinks about walking off into oblivion a few times. Would the world truly suffer if she disappeared somewhere? There are only a few rifts to be closed and the Herald of Andraste will no longer be needed except to keep a few pages in a history book somewhere.

Instead she eventually marches back towards the fire and tents when the night grows too cold for even her magic to thwart. In the dim light she almost mistakes his form for another rock formation, but between one step and the other she recognizes the shape of long horns turning upward.

“Making sure I didn’t run away?”

“You’re not the type to run, even when maybe you should. Just making sure no baddies grab you while you’re stuck in your own head.” She wants to spill her secrets like sand running over dunes, unburden herself of this burden, but how can she ask them to carry more weight for her? “Ready to talk yet, Boss?”

 _Boss_ , Bull says, but she hears it like a snake’s whisper before it sinks dripping fangs into flesh. _Bas_. How can she afford not to tell him the truth? “I kill you, in the future.”

She tells him everything. Everything about the Qunari plot, Solas’ plans and success, her daughter who rewrote it all. Bull barely moves throughout her words, only watches her carefully and quietly as the story unravels and so does she. Each word loosens something inside her until she feels stretched out, frayed. He is silent still when she is finished, the threads of her life between his hands.

She pulls the memory crystal from her pocket and shows it to him. “If you need more proof it holds a record of everything. All you have to do-”

“No, I believe you. It makes sense. Well, not the whole time travel shit but…me.”

“It doesn’t have to happen, it’s not too late. There are other paths than giving yourself over to duty and I’m sorry that I made that example, that I didn’t help you when you needed me to. I was wrong. Look what following missions and beliefs blindly did for Solas, and me, and the world. I…I took your family from you and I can’t give them back but,” she drops to the ground before him, pleading with body and words, “I promise, I swear, that I will help you find a life outside of the Qun if you wish it. I will not let you down again, or let you sink into madness. Stay with us. With me and Cassandra, Sera. Dorian. Stay The Iron Bull.”

He clears his throat after a long moment of nothing.  “I…yeah.“  

"Please tell me you’ll at least think about. It’s your choice, no one else’s. Decide for yourself.”

“Right. I’ll think about it.” Bull stands, looming high above her and blocking out of the stars. “I’m gonna go…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence and walks by her, big feet stepping over her footprints and following her meandering path. Keela watches him go until his form folds into the darkness and even when she can’t see him any longer, she still feels the strands he holds. They tighten around her neck, a noose of her own making, and she can only hope if someone must pay for her crimes it will only be her that swings from the gallows this time. 


	13. Aftermath - Pain

There is a dragon’s roar haunting the wastes.

Keela hears it at night accompanied by velvet wings but for most of their stay in the west the creature ignores them in favor of other prey. There are more pressing concerns for the Inquisitor to attend to than chasing a shadow in the dark. Even if their leader is no more the Venatori still refuse to leave, scouring the sands for pieces of Dwarven history, and their malice is all the greater for what she has done to their glorious future. There are still rifts to be closed as well, puzzles to solve, and Keela gives all her attention to these tasks in hopes of keeping her grief at bay. It still sneaks in, like persistent grains turning up in places she never expects, and always there no matter how hard she tries to dissuade it.

More than a month later the dragon can no longer be ignored when it swoops down and steals one of the Inquisition horses, burns an encampment and two agents within their tents. They spend a few hours tracking it back to its nest that’s nestled in a valley surrounded by ruins. That is all this place is - sand and memory, the remnant of something that has be eroded away and buried with time. For all its breadth and beauty it is still a tomb. 

The dragon slumbers as they approach. Keela does not signal the attack right away and watches its broad chest move up and down slowly, watches a talon twitch as it dreams of open skies and herds of prey. For a year and more she has hunted them across lower Thedas when they have threatened towns and strongholds or stumbled upon their teeth in the rain and ice. She does not take pleasure in it - Dalish do not waste life, do not hunt for sport or fun, but she cannot deny how hot her blood becomes to fight such a monster and live. How powerful it feels to face death incarnate and survive.

For all she knows this could be the last of its kind in all the lands. Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, First-Thaw, Basalit-An. Vhenan too, a title like all the rest when she thought it was an exception. Will Dragonslayerbe next? Has she done anything but destroy to become what she is?

_What has she done?_

Keela thrusts her staff into the ground and sends a burst of fire and energy into the night. The dragon wakes, claws digging trenches into the earth as it rises to meet them.

“Kaffas! Are you mad?”

“You’ve taken away our element of surprise!”

Dorian and Cassandra both are more startled than their quarry but if she is to die let it be head on and if she is to kill let it be as honorable as such things can be. Bull is silent as he steps to her side and heaves the great ax from his back. He turns to her with a smile and she knows he understands the ultimate truth- If there are any monsters here, it is  _them_. 

Bull rushes forward with Cassandra not far behind, her disgruntled grimace turning into something fiercer. Barriers and enchanted weapons glisten but it is the dragon’s fiery breath that turns night into day. “Wonderful. Of course it’s a fire dragon,” Dorian mutters but she is glad. She is glad to face fire with fire. Let it burn and cleanse and let them see who is worthy enough to remain in the ashes. 

They have done this dance several times and know the steps, but as the creature begins to bleed Keela begins her own melody and moves closer despite Dorian’s protests. She needs to see into its eyes and understand the beast inside her own skin. A maelstrom of flame and fade and lightning flies from her body, her light and powerful attacks attracting the dragon’s attention. It turns to challenge her but does not get very far. Cassandra and Bull are there to cut at its legs and sides and bring it crashing to one side. 

“Now, Dorian!”

Keela blinks and the world slows around them. They strike out with magic and blade while the dragon seems frozen in time, unable to defend itself against attacks that must seem like blurs to it. The Haste spell doesn’t last long but the damage done is extensive. The dragon cannot lift itself and lets out a piercing scream of agony that shakes the air. It rattles through Keela’s head in painful waves yet it is the answering calls that make her heart race. Dragonlings emerge from the rocks and rubble. Their wings are only tiny twigs upon their back but they charge forward with tenacity to protect their mother. They have fought the young before too- quick little things full of sharper teeth than the adults but with hides soft and limbs still unsure. Cassandra and Dorian easily kill the first that comes close while Bull cleanly cuts off the head of the next.

Keela cannot move. She is struck immobile as her friends finish the last and watches as the mighty dragon nudges a small body with pleading whines. Something breaks inside her and sends her crashing to her knees. The creature catches her movement and its attention narrows, lips snarling back. It lets out a roar of rage and heartbreak and finds the strength to stand again. Keela can hear the others calling out in alarm and feels giant feet pounding closer, but all she can see is blood on the ground and a child in her arms. 

She lets the dragon come. She can do nothing with this pain inside, like barbed chains wrapped around her ribs and pulling. They have both failed their children but it is her fault that they have died in the first place. She should have stayed away, dismantled the rest of the camps and left these lands. Her future self should have killed Solas when she had the chance.

There is warm, rancid breath upon her face and Keela looks up into yellow eyes so like her own. They regard each other for a moment, hunters and world changers, grieving and guilty mothers, before the dragon shows its razor fangs. She never feels their bite. Bull charges in with a roar of his own and digs axe deep into the creature’s neck. The surge of Dorian’s lightning lifts the hairs on her body as it cracks through the air and into a thick skull. Cassandra is there too, arms lifting up their fallen Inquisitor, and it is suddenly too loud. There is a high pitched wail as the dragon’s eyes go dark and as the Seeker drags her away Keela realizes it is her own voice that haunts the sands now.

She doesn’t remember returning to camp. One moment there is earth beneath her feet and the next it is the plush carpets of her tent. There’s a rush of leather and parchment, gauze ripping and water sloshing. There is wine for her, something red and heady that slowly stops her limbs from trembling. When she can think again the room is empty save for her friends who watch her with varying degrees of alarm and anger. 

“This end now,” Cassandra says. “You have asked us to tolerate this behavior for long enough.”

“We’re not leaving until you tell us what’s happened or until you have us thrown out in irons,” Dorian adds. “I think you know which one I’d prefer.”

Keela glances at Bull. He sits farther back half covered in shadows, arms and legs crossed. The light is too dim to see his expression, but she doesn’t miss the way he gives a little nod. So she tells them. Her voice is steady this time, detached from the emotions of it all. There is no hitch in her voice as she describes the damage done by the anchor, nor the results of Solas’ success. Somehow she manages to tell the tale of Fen’Lin and her daughter’s sacrifice without crackling and coming apart like logs in the fire. 

There is silence when she finishes. Both her friends wear expressions that would be comical in any other situation - a mix of disbelief and horror that she knows well. Dorian is the first to recover. “As you know, time travel is something of a specialty of mine. Alexius and I were close to testing our hypothesis before I left. Even so, and pardon my skepticism when I ask, but how can you be sure any of this occurred? Solas is apparently not a trustworthy source for anything.”

She pulls the memory stone from her pocket and tosses it to him. “I made this, in the future. It is all my memories from the beginning of the Inquisition until my death. While memories can be skewed by perception and time, this magic cannot be falsified. It is not Solas' magic. It is mine, magic my birth clan has perfected for centuries.”

"May I see it?" Keela gives Dorian the crystal’s instructions and he obeys, eyes closing and body going still. 

 

“This is unimaginable,” Cassandra says while he explores the future. “How could we allow it to happen? Solas is a capable mage, and I assume it would not be easy with what you’ve revealed, but how could we not band together to stop him?”

“Because of me.” She thought she would be enough, but she never was. A foolish, vain sentiment. He would never be enough to stop her from her goals either, so why did her future self believe it to be so? The numbness begins to recede and her aching heart feels the sting like a limb coming awake. “I should have killed him.”

“Inquisitor-”

With a shuddering gasp Dorian rouses himself out of the memories. “Andraste’s hol- Where is he now? You learned all this and he’s not a prisoner in Skyhold’s dungeon? How is he still living?”

“You would ask her to kill the father of her child?”

“A child that will likely not exist now that time has been altered. You are aware of this, aren’t you?” Dorian sighs. “Of course you are. It’s why you’ve been acting this way since we’ve left. Keela…I’m sorry, I can’t imagine how you feel, but we can’t let him go about with his plans.”

“He won’t.”

“Are you sure? Can you honestly sit there and tell me you trust him not to? Do forgive me if I don’t share your confidence.”

“Not for us. For her. He watched her die.” Her voice breaks finally. She remembers him kneeling in the forest, the broken bend of his body. Once he may have been the world’s greatest threat, but he is a wolf without teeth now. “He watched his daughter ripped apart in front of him to pay for his sins. He won’t do it again. He might sacrifice everything to bring her back, but that’s not possible.”

The look on Dorian’s face changes to something remorseful yet there’s a glimpse of thoughtfulness to it that makes Keela’s heart skip. “What?”

“If this did occur then I believe there should be residual energy remaining from the spell. That future may no longer exist in its full form any longer, but something so massive cannot be destroyed completely.” 

Keela stands. “What you are saying?”

“At the very least I should be able to confirm the time alteration. If I had access to thousands of years of knowledge and a considerable amount of power,” he gives her a pointed look, “I might be able to do more.”

Her body shivers with regret. She never should have let Solas out of her sight, but she couldn’t stand to breathe the same air he did any longer. Will this be another mistake that breaks her world? “Could you go forward to any point or only when the spell happened?”

“I’m not sure it’s possible at all, mind you. Merely speculating.” 

“What do you need to do more than speculate?”

“Decades, probably, and things I’ll never find in this wasteland. All my notes are at Skyhold and all the equipment I would need is in Minrathous at the moment. I will likely need this too.” He holds up the memory crystal. “Besides Solas, it’s the only thing surviving from that time.”

Panic scraps on the inside of her ribs and Keela resists the urge to reach for it. Instead she calls the requisitions officer and orders them to send a raven back to Skyhold with instructions on sending Dorian’s things onward to Tevinter. “Right away, Your Worship. There are also messages for Seeker Pentaghast and The Iron Bull,” they reveal and hand the rolled parchments to each party. 

“You would use this magic to undo what’s been done?” Cassandra asks as she unrolls her missive. 

“No.” Keela replies, although she is tempted. So very tempted. There is no point in the future where all her friends still live and her child grows inside her, however, and she will not sacrifice a world for one soul no matter their name or the color of their eyes. “We need confirmation and we might need to understand how it was done in case Solas comes to the same conclusions as we do. I do not want to be several steps behind him ever again. There is another thing I would have you research as well.”

“Oh? What could possibly be more important than this?”

“The Veil. I want to know if it can be brought down safely.” Cassandra and Dorian both explode at the same moment, spewing outrage and confusion alike at her. 

“You can’t be serious! You can’t possibly want that level of destruction to happen again.”

“You know the truth and so should the rest of the world. The Veil is not natural. It may fall someday in the future on its own when we are all dead and if we do not warn them, if we do not investigate, I imagine Thedas will be devastated regardless.”

“You’re right. It’s worth looking into at least. Although you know we would benefit the most from its creator’s input. Fen’Harel,” Dorian says with a laugh. “I still can’t believe it. I’ve thrown a book at the Dread Wolf himself! It will be difficult resisting doing much worse to him the next we meet.”

She doesn’t mention the next time they see Solas it’s likely his eyes will be able to turn them to stone. Foolish, letting him out of her sight for even a moment. “What does your letter say, Cassandra?”

“The Chantry wishes me to return to Val Royeaux. I am still a candidate to become Divine and they are desperate to have the task completed. Ugh.” She crumples the note. “I refuse to go.”

“You’ll go," Dorian says. "You love scandalizing the mothers as much as I do. How lovely, we all have tasks to perform. That leaves you, Bull.”

Bull leans forward out of the shadows and looks at Keela. “It’s from Seheron. Ben-Hassrath want me to come back and debrief.”

“Marvelous. We can travel together most of the way then.”

Bull hasn’t stopped looking at her and she can see it, the flash of her fire and the pointed end of her staff plunging into his chest - a future that didn’t happen, but she swears she can feel the wood in her palms, his last breath moving in and out. 

“There was a curious memory in here.” Dorian tosses the stone into the air, his brows furrowed. “Only got a glimpse, but there were Qunari everywhere. Maybe a dragon? Is Seheron in our future?”

 _Please_ , she wants to whisper, to scream, but it is her turn to wait desperately for an answer. It must be his choice, not hers, and she can understand how a future known, however horrible, may be preferable to one that isn’t. 

“I…not going back to Seheron,” Bull announces and Keela lets out a long breath. “Not going back to the Ben-Hassrath.”

“Last I checked one couldn’t simply retire from the Ben-Hassrath. You’ll become Tal-Voshoth. You hate the Tal-Voshoth.”

“Yeah.” 

Dorian’s gaze flits back and forth between them. “What is it now?”

“Come on,” Bull says and stands. “We need to talk.”

Cassandra joins them. “I will see to the preparations for tomorrow.”

When they leave the tent, Keela sinks down into soft pillows against the pull of exhaustion and the release of relief. There is more work to be done, a promise she will keep, decisions to be made, grief and anger still a tangle of weeds in her ribcage, and yet she feels them give way just a little, can see some ray of light through the foliage. She has made mistakes, but they do not have to cost everything for everyone she has ever cared for. They do not need to happen again. She _won’t_ let them happen, not this time.

* * *

Morning brings Dorian to her doorstep. Behind him the Inquisition is readying to depart in many directions - a few will travel to Tevinter’s border while most congregate around Cassandra to embark upon the road to Griffon Wing Keep and then onward to Val Royeaux. The Seeker’s journey will ultimately be pointless but it is where she belongs for the moment. 

“Well, this is…” he clears his throat, “I’m not sure what to say. Don’t be fooled for I have  _many_  things to say, but I’m not sure where to begin. There’s something to be said of Solas and you though - at least you never do things by half measures.”

“Dorian-”

“It wasn’t your fault. Not just your fault, that is, and let’s leave it at that shall we?” 

“I’m sorry. I…” She wants to say she didn’t know that it could happen, that she didn’t know she would be condemning seven souls that day in the rain, that she would like to change their fate if she could, but none of that changes what was done. None of it makes her guilt any less deserved.

“You are my very best friend and few things will change that,” he puts a hand on her shoulder, “but if you let this happen again I shall be very cross with you. Cross in a way that involves lightning and retribution and one of us having a very bad day.”

“I promise to keep Bull safe and I promise to keep this world safe too, whether it costs Solas’ life or mine to do so. I swear it.”

Eyes soften and he takes a deep breath, anger and confusion settling down but not forgotten. “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

She wonders what it will come to in the end. Will it be no matter how hard she tries it will still be her spell and the end of her staff in Bull’s heart? What can be changed and what will always remain the same? Is a death always assured? Is a life? “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she says, for it is one thing that will always be true no matter what.

“You don’t know what to do  _with_  me most of the time. Wish me luck and you,” he taps the bottom of her chin, “no more foolishness from you. Promise me that, too.”

Within the hour all parties are away. After a few rolling dunes, Keela loses sight of Dorian’s white mare. The return journey is quiet but without an added sense of dread hanging over everyone this time. Their long stay within the desert is over for now and not even the aloof nature of their superiors stops the soldiers and layman from laughing and carrying on. It is infectious after so many miles and so many days. She and Bull at first stay close, mostly silent but bound together by their shared horrors, and yet one day she finds him off in the distance helping build tents for the evening or passing a drink around the fire. 

For her part the warm desert seems to loosen the lines of her mouth into smiles again - not the bright ones that dazzle, but ones that stop her men from wincing every time she glances their way. Here in the endless expanse of sand and sun it easier to breathe without feeling crowded - here she can pretend her problems are small things in comparison and the road ahead starts to appear in her mind, stone by stone. She is not the broken, scattered thing she was in those memories. She is Keela Vastrula de Bel’Enasalin Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste who walked from the Fade, the Inquisitor who united the lands of Thedas against a common enemy and healed the sky, the First-Thaw who smote a dragon and honored the ghost of her predecessor, and these are not things to weigh her down. 

She can do impossible things - she can survive this too.

“Oi, what’s that?” someone shouts. Keela glances up from her thoughts to the horizon. There’s a dark smudge there distorted from the waves of heat that seems to be moving even more than normal.

“Looks like Inquisition soldiers approaching fast,” a scout with a spyglass says by her side. “Can’t tell, but- ah!”

They cry out as an arrow lodges itself deep into their chest. The alarm of ambush is raised as Venatori pour over the sand around them with spells and steel flying. Keela manages to throw up a barrier before a spear runs her through. Everything around her speeds up - there’s flashes of colors and metal glaring in the sunlight, mounts and men screaming, the acrid smell of flesh burning as she feels mages pulling on the fabric of the Fade deep in her gut. 

Her barrier fails to protect her a second time as a gigantic mace swings her way. It crashes against her magic, sending it splintering into pieces and her flying from her hart. She lands in a puff of sand and air from her lungs. A great figure throws her into the dark as the Venatori agent stands above her with weapon raised. Magic surges through her in a desperate rush, not enough to stop them completely; there will be pain to come, she knows, but if she can survive-

There is a roar and the shape of a familiar great axe embeds itself into the armor of her would be assassin. Blood trickles into the shifting earth, splatters her legs as Bull pulls his weapon free. “You all right, Boss?” he asks when the attacker is well and truly no longer a threat. 

“Yes.” She takes his offered hand and stands to the sight of a battle quickly ending. Relief spreads through her to see more Venatori bodies spread across the ground than Inquisition colors, no doubt thanks to the reinforcements luckily arriving when needed most. One of them upon horseback approaches her now but she doesn’t need him to remove that silver helm to know who is beneath it.

“Afternoon, M’lady,” Rylen greets with a bow of his head and Keela nods hers in reply, still a little winded from the blow.  

“Good timing,” Bulls says. “Saw them coming?”

“Intercepted one of their runners and worked out the rest. My men will clean up this mess and tend to the wounded right quick, Inquisitor. Why don’t we get going to the Keep?” 

Despite her agreement, Keela still stops to check on a few of her injured and help turn over a fallen wagon. She finds her hart jittery but unharmed and it takes some effort to climb into the saddle now that adrenaline has waned and every new bruise and aching muscles makes itself known.

“All in one piece there, M’lady?” Rylen asks as they finally make their way.

“Yes. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Just doing my duty. Speaking of - heard you zipped up that blasted Breach for good this time. Glad to hear it. Makes standing around melting in my boots for months worth a damn.”

“I hope you have been doing more than standing around, Captain.”

He flashes her a smile and something tightens inside. “Aye, been shoring up the keep real nice for the next time the lovely lady Inquisitor decided to swing on by. You’ll barely recognize it, I think.”

“Long as it’s got one good cot and some grog, sounds like a palace to me,” Bull grunts. 

“Got plenty of both.”

The day has grown hot and both Bull and Keela’s injuries grow more pronounced, but nothing keeps her mind from shouting and spiraling even if she rides still and silent for much of the remaining ride. Every once in awhile she’ll let her eyes slide from the desert around them to catch on Rylen’s arm, the strips of colored ink on his chin, the long slope and hook of his nose. There are memories carved in the shape of him, some that have already happened and some that haven’t, and her heart suddenly feels stretched by too many hands.

When she looks next his eyes are on her this time, sparkling with that same easy amusement that drew her to him so long ago in Haven’s unblackened snow. She holds his gaze as Griffon Wing Keep comes into view at last and isn’t sure what she wishes to find in either place. 

Rylen is the first to look away as he sweeps his arm out. “Welcome home, Inquisitor.”

* * *

If you’re interested, or a little confused, you can read all of Keela & Rylen’s fics [here](http://jessicapendragon.tumblr.com/post/132980348344/rylen-romance-fics). :)


	14. Aftermath - Bargaining

There is a package waiting for her.

“Arrived two days ago,” an agent says. “There’s a letter too that come last week. We thought to wait until you got here when we heard word you were on the way. A thousand apologies if it was urgent, but-”

She waves them away, waits until the door is shut before ripping into the thick envelope. The paper is heavy and expensive, lightly perfumed even after all this time, and she doesn’t have to see the elegant curves or the sunburst seal inside first to know who it is from. Vivienne’s note is short.

“ _I am not often made speechless and I suspect there is more at play here than your mere intuition. I do hope you will share the methods behind your insight soon. For our other business, I must inform you I have no news either way, but will continue to keep it as a top priority....”_

There is another note tucked inside, the note Keela handed to her friend all those weeks ago. The Inquisitor’s seal is flaked and broken now to easily reveal the one word scrawled across the center, the same word printed at the end of Vivienne’s correspondence:  _Victoria_. If there is one decision she can be proud of in the twisted future, it is lifting her voice in support of the First Enchanter. There is hope for something more, something better, and in the end it isn’t only the Chantry that drives this world to madness. 

A quick burst of fire and the parchment blackens and curls to drift as cinders through the air. The package, she knows, is not from Vivienne. It is not overly large, wrapped in coarse paper and twine, and she takes her time untwisting it like it is all made of thorns. A note inside contains the healer of Skyhold’s signature scrawled in smeared ink with directions and a warning for the bottles resting inside. Keela reaches out but pauses, thoughts darker than the thick substance seen through etched glass.

Instead she closes it and distracts herself in her new surroundings. The former Knight-Captain has given up his holdings within the keep for her use, but there is still evidence of Rylen throughout the room, like a shaving kit sitting beside a bowl of water. She opens the stout jar of cream and inhales the scent, something with sage and bergamot, and it takes her back to those brief, cold days and warmer nights spent with him in Haven. It seems so long ago, another life. 

Papers pile all of the desk in a scattered array she does her best to resist straightening, pieces that don’t seem to be of much urgency as she follows the sharp cut of his writing. Unlike his desk, the writing is succinct, clean, save for the end of his  _n’s._  They curl up and away like pioneering vines and she wonders if it’s done on purpose. From all she can remember of him, she has her suspicions. There is a scrap of cloth tucked beneath some books there too. Gently she picks it up and scans the tattered edges and faded designs. Red and blue, the sigil of his house etched in gold that once must have shined but now is cracked and crumbling. 

She loved him, once. 

Not in the past, not now. In some time that no longer exists, and there shouldn’t be anything left from what is gone, but she feels something and she knows it is true. The crystal’s memories of Solas are bright, but the ones of Rylen are brighter, things not dulled by duty or damaged by distrust. It is hard to look at them at first, like they are a betrayal, like they can’t be real. It seems her future self thinks something similar for how long it takes to confess her affection properly. Now she wishes she hadn’t given the stone to Dorian so she can take one more look despite the way her heart rebels. 

“Inquisitor.”

She is not easily startled and yet jumps to find the captain perched at the door, hand raised to the stone threshold as if he might knock upon it. “Rylen.”

“Ah, you found it.” He crosses the room and gently takes the cloth from her, thumb brushing over the sigil fondly. “A trinket Mum gave me before I skipped off into service. Templars aren’t supposed to keep such things, but naught a boy or lass I knew didn’t have something squirreled a way from home. The Commander confessed to have kept a coin.”

It takes a moment to search for it, but she finds an appropriate smile for the occasion. Everything has felt so askew for weeks, and she is tired of feeling tossed on this roiling ocean. “So, accommodations up to your specifications?” he asks. “Need anything more?”

“Everything is fine, thank you.”

“Know how long you’ll be staying on?”

“Little more than a week. I will wait for Rainier to arrive on his way to Adamant. I imagine it will be some time before our paths cross again.” She knows the next time she meets with the once false and soon to be true Warden - in the dark of the Deep Roads and before the burning heart of something strange. Rylen is there too, she remembers, and it is hard to tell which one of them is more relieved to see the other when the rubble clears away.

The pauses between them now are awkward, she knows it, but it’s difficult to spin around in the dance of small talk and proper etiquette with him. They were never ones for protocol from the start but she is afraid to fall into that effortlessness they had only begun to explore before disaster in Haven and a long dreamed about kiss in its copy. If Rylen had never been sent to the west, if Solas had been  _kind_ , what world might she live in now? Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous and pointless.  _This_  is her world and she has never before shirked away from reality and its challenges. 

Rylen clears his throat. “That’s well and good then. I’ll allow you to settle in proper-”

“I’m sorry. It has been...a long journey.”

“I can imagine. Heard all about your fight with Corypheus up in the clouds and your personal vendetta against every poor grain of sand in this place lately. You always had a knack for the dramatic, Lady Herald.”

“I never named myself that.”

He smiles. “Never heard you deny it either,  _Your Worship_.” 

She laughs at that,  _laughs_ , and realizes how much she has missed it. “I am sure your adventures in the Approach have been just as exciting.”

“Down right riveting.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about them.” 

“Be glad to, lass. Maybe tonight over a pint, like old times?” She shrinks away from him a bit at the thought - not that it displeases her but because it  _doesn’t_  and yet it is much too soon for these feelings to be there at all, if they even are more than remnants gone. At seeing her hesitation, Rylen drops his expression into something with more care. “Sorry to have overstepped, M’Lady. Looks like I’ve been out of polite society for a bit too long.”

“There is no need to apologize. Some other time. I would like to turn in early this evening.”

“Of course. Long journey, as you said. I’ll take my leave then.” He gives a quick bow. “Goodnight, Inquisitor.”

“Goodnight.” She leans back against the table when he shuts the door, heaves a sigh that she wishes would clear her head as much as it clears her lungs. Clarity and control is what she needs, not more complications. She is stronger than all this, stronger than the wraith she becomes - she just needs time to find a way forward that will not see such undoing again.

When she manages to fall asleep there is a presence waiting for her, a gentle touch asking permission to drift into her dreams. The Fade forms into an unfamiliar landscape - a great sweep of plains swaying with tall grain, mountains large and grey in the distance. A single tree stands upon a little hill and she climbs it to find him standing in its shade. He looks no different, calm and quiet, and yet eyes filled with a weight much heavier than ever before.

“What is it, Solas?” she asks when there is nothing but the whisper of wind between them for a few long moments.

“You wished to speak to me.”

“You heard of my letters already?” She sent a few, to Skyhold and other important keeps, in hopes one of his spies might stumble upon it and send him word. She refused to allow any of his people to accompany her west. The thought of them sending information about her to him made her stomach pitch.

He pauses before answering. “I have heard you calling in your dreams.”

She knows why he would hesitate. It means he has been  _listening_  and that reality is something she doesn’t really want, but she cannot blame him for answering when this is what she had been intending to happen, hoping might occur despite her misgivings. Having it work doesn’t bring her much happiness.

“I need to speak to you about your plans. Were you successful in finding whatever power you were after?”

“I was.” His brow is troubled however, as if he cannot understand how it could be so, as if whatever he has done worked but did not go as he intended. 

“What did you do?” If he has birthed some new horror, she would know it - the sin is as much hers as it is his for giving her blessing.

“I visited Mythal. In the past I assimilated her powers under somewhat false pretenses. She thought to thwart my plans by her own machinations afterward, but I was made aware of them. I...confessed my true intentions this time, told the tale of the future and what I made of our people and our power, and even then she willingly relented her strength.”

“Why?”

“She did not say, not directly. I am still attempting to unravel her finals words.”

 _Mythal_. “Does that mean I am your servant now?” The idea boils her blood, sees a sharp shame clawing its way up her spine. Even so, something like relief trickles through her mind - perhaps that’s why she can’t recognize herself through the flashes in the crystal, how she becomes something she never would want. Something broken and defeated.

“No. Whatever of her will remains, you are still tied to its fate apart from mine. It has always been this way.”

Keela frowns, theories going up in flames although she should know better. Nothing is ever so simple. “And what are your intentions now?”

“As of now, I seek to find an alternative means of removing the mark without excessive damage. I have not been as successful in that endeavor.”

“And that is all?”

“If there is something you would want of me, you need only ask it.”

She wants a million things, bites her tongue from wishing to know why he wouldn’t bow to her will before. “I need to know you aren’t thinking of using your power to reverse what has happened. To bring that future back somehow. To bring her back.”

Once again he takes a moment to answer, falling back into the embrace of the tree first, the posture of his shoulders slumping further. “I confess I have given the concept considerations. Despite the enormity of power needed, there has already likely been untold damage done to this world with the current reverse of time. Things cannot simply cease to be. They are altered, in what ways and to what cost we can only stipulate now. To reverse  _this_  action, no, I would not attempt it.”

“I need to hear you swear it, Solas.” There was a time when such things were not needed, when she trusted him without fault, and she can see the longing for such days in a flash across his eyes.

“I swear it. What has been done, is done. I have no further plans to mettle with the fate of Thedas, for all the good my interventions have done before.”

“A revelation come too late. It is not true what they say of better late than never, Solas. Not in this case at least.” 

“You are right. I thought, for a moment...but you are right. I sacrificed everything to achieve my goal. Not only the future of your world but the possibilities of futures for myself. I knew the cost.”

A memory from the crystal blooms before her. “You chose the Din’Shiral.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you are the only one who has lived. Not death for yourself, but for everyone else around you.” He doesn’t answer, but the way he looks away, brow crumbling under his transgression, is enough. She doesn’t have to ask if it was all worth it either - she has witnessed pieces of his failing world, feels some of his pain in her own heart. 

Part of her wants to beg him to undo what has been done no matter the new cost. To return them to a time when they are alive, with their daughter unspoiled by her parents’ legacies. A selfish wish. The world is mended yet utterly broken in that future, but it could be  _theirs._ He has sworn not to mettle with this magic and she must do the same. It is the best chance for Thedas even if it is the end for them.

“We are finished, Solas.” It feels like she has to drag the words from her throat as they try to dig in with claws. She’s known it from the moment she left Skyhold, but it is another thing to say it out loud. Their fate has been dangling on one last thread and it is she that will finally cut it loose regardless of what will, or what now won’t, happen. No matter that she will never see her daughter in the flesh as a result. Whatever path is ahead, she cannot, will not, walk it with him this time. “There can be no us after this.” 

He dips his head, absorbing what he must have realized already as well. There is only silence at first and she doesn’t expect him to beg her to reconsider, to bargain for a life they will both be denying, but those same, weak parts of her want him to give in. To rage with her, to throw the world into chaos together as one this time and damn what may happen.

In this timeline, however, they are both stronger than their desires for all the horrors experienced and seen through crystal. Solas looks at her with eyes defeated but sure. “I know. It is...better this way. Thedas will be free of my influence and so will you. That is my only hope and condolence, the only I shall seek. That you will have a chance at happiness-” 

“I  _was_  happy!” Around her, stalks of wheat begin to catch fire, and she steps forward with all the promise of a landslide. Keela grabs onto his collar, yanking him forward with force. “I was happy with you! It was...it was real for me too, Solas.”

After a moment he wraps his fingers around hers and she allows it, for one last time. “To hear you say it is a gift I do not deserve.” 

Her anger becomes smoke on the breeze - she is only tired, tired and tattered and wanting for so much more than this. “You deserved more, if only you would have let yourself have it.”

A smile, small and wistful. “Perhaps, in another world.”

Keela doesn’t mention that  _this_  was supposed to be another world. It has proven to be too tangled with the last and she wonders why their daughter chose to send him back to now instead of some other time, like when she is just a child and they are separated but there are  _choices_. It would not have been better for Thedas, but it would have kept her with Keela at least, kept her alive when now... 

“What was she like?” she asks, for if Fenera is only to be a memory she will be  _remembered_.

“I cannot say many things for certain. She was attempting to convince me into believing she was you, so for that I can only say she was very clever. Courageous, for all that she endured. A talented fighter who favored daggers and utilized fire, but I am of the mind another was her preferred element. Lightning, perhaps. She had a skill for painting as well.”

She looks at him with an arched brow. “And you thought I had suddenly acquired such skill?”

“As it turned out, it took little effort on her part to convince me, or at least to ensnare me within her web. I was...I am....”

“What?”

“After your death, I chose to forget my own humanity. The day I learned that you...” He shakes his head. “I let the world beyond Elvhenan perish because you were no longer within it and became that most terrible beast of legend. With Fenera’s first offering, I began to remember. I became myself again. It is a debt I can never truly repay.”

This second chance to save her world is something Keela can never repay either, except for making sure history doesn’t repeat itself. Fenera must have known this.  _Selfless_  is an attribute she would add, for how little she knows of her daughter this must be true. If only Keela had been the same she could have saved them all from this fate. It is  _her_  fault that Fenera had to live and die at all. 

She takes a few steps away from Solas and keeps retreating, feels cold as his hands slide away from hers, but it’s a shock she welcomes. This has gone on long enough. “Come to me when you have found a way to remove the mark. There is time, if I remember? It didn’t seem to bother me until the Exalted Council. I will try not to deviate too much from the near future I glimpsed in the crystal. I imagine that would create more problems.”

“Keela.” Against her better judgement she turns to face him again. There is sorrow to be found in his features, a lost hope like a banner torn and drifting from a captured keep. “I...”

“I know, Solas.” She looks at him for a few more heartbeats, with a heart that aches and burns and was once his, before she pulls the dream apart.

The next few days pass in a blur. Her mind fills with the history of two lifetimes as she relives every conversation between her and Solas. Hindsight is a frustrating thing, for the cracks in his false facade are so obvious now when before she was blinded by trust, by love, by a hope that his secrets were things to be overcome, not things that would overcome them all. She feels trapped between worlds, stuck in the doldrums of her life again. The feeling of helplessness is not something she enjoys - the brokenness of her heart something she never expected.

When sleep is simply an animal she cannot tame, she rises and walks the parapets of Griffon Wing Keep. There is barely a touch of warmth left in the rough stone beneath her hand as she trails it behind her, her thoughts leagues ahead on the puzzle of the future. The air is chilled enough to warrant a jacket and she tugs it closer to her face as stray wind plays with her hair. She enjoys the baking, bright days in the desert more, but there is something comforting about the quiet night, the thousands of stars that seem close enough to touch. There is nothing to see when she looks beyond the walls, dunes draped in darkness, distance and depth things unknown. 

The calm usually helps her find balance again, but tonight promises only discord as a familiar voice breaks apart the silence. “You haven’t looked at it yet.”

Cole manifests from the shadows, sand spilling from the brim of his hat when he tips it back to look at her with curious eyes. “Cole? What are you doing here?  _When_  did you get here?” she asks when the initial shock of his presences wears away.

“Now.”

“But why?”

“Sera was tired of me. She can think very loud and I don’t think I can do that with a broom. Thom needed me, but you need me more right now.”

The story finally clicks. “You were traveling with Rainier to Adamant.”

“Yes. He doesn’t fear dying.  _Warden name stolen but cared for like the crest he polishes over and over. Now he will have his own to hold and he worries it will rust no matter how hard he scrubs._   _Does a Rainier deserve to be a Blackwall?_ He doesn’t know, but he wants to know. _”_

“He will make a good Warden.”

“Yes. You know it because it happened, but it didn’t. Your thoughts hurt, like seagulls that are too many and too loud.” Cole purses his lips. “You kill me.”

Keela swallows a lump in her throat, tries to blink away that memory from the crystal. It is one not easily forgotten for Cole’s death, for the way Solas looks defeated in his victory when he sees her pregnant for the first time. “I did. It will not happen like that again.”

“How do you know?”

“Cole-”

“You helped me. You will always help me. Now I want to help you.” He flicks his wrist and a piece of folded parchment appears between his fingers. She knows what it is for the bent corner, the soft sepia color, the stain of ink smudged on the side. A hand goes to her pocket where it should be, where it’s been for weeks and weeks, and all she finds is a surge of panic.

“Cole...”

She wants to be herselfagain, to not be held back by these chains of emotion that cloud everything, that make her feel small and powerless when she needs to feel in control. Perhaps she could convince him to steal away the memories inside her mind like she’s watched him do for others, to take away these burdens. Any price to pay is better than what she has been left with. 

“You don’t want that. You don’t want to look because then it’ll really be real.  _What we had was real_. He never got to say it this time, but it’s still true. She was real too, a truth that hurts and you always want it no matter the pain.  _Lies are brambles and poison, truth is the heat of a wound _cauterized__ ,  _but this feels like dying_. It just hurts more because it’s your heart.” 

She scoffs. “And if I look it will simply stop?”

“No. It’ll hurt more, but then it won’t. You have to hold it before you can let it go.” He holds the paper out for her. “Look.”

She knows he’s right. She can’t keep pushing this away, pretending it doesn’t matter to her because it didn’t truly happen, because the thought of a family was just a tiny seed she barely watered and yet she can’t deny took root despite her other designs. She must face this like any other adversary she’s known. Dragons and darkspawn, magisters and gods, beasts of terror and teeth - she has charged forward undaunted before and needs to assemble her courage again, for a part of herself she never left unarmored.

With a trembling breath she takes it and unfolds it before she can change her mind like she has for all these days past. It is not like looking in a mirror even though there are similarities- there are heavier waves through black hair, a nose that remains straight and unbroken. The eyes are the same but have seen different things, lived a different life. Solas is there too, every freckle and dimple a reminder, and she’s not sure whose stubbornness is more apparent in the cut of her jaw, but this woman in her hands is all her own, youthful and beautiful, with tragedy and pride in the air around her, and she is...she is...

“Perfect,” Cole says, voice awed and full of emotions raging inside. “It’s what he thought too.”

“No.” She shoves the paper into his chest but it is not so easily forsaken. Fenera’s face is there when she closes her eyes and it all hurts, like a pressure on her chest pushing down and even so there is an emptiness growing, a vastness of nothing when she tries to reach out for purchase. There is no denying or hiding anymore, for better or ill- her daughter,  _their daughter_ , was real and now will only exist in stone and paper.

This is what they have created, and what they have destroyed. 

“No,” Keela repeats and retreats into the dark.


	15. Aftermath- Depression

The book hurtles through the air and hits against the nearest wall with a thunk.

It falls, exposing broken spine and crinkled pages, silent and sad.  As soon as it leaves her hand she feels foolish for the action, like a child fit for only throwing a tantrum, but even the guilt is not as heavy as she might wish it to be. 

All day she has been trying to find something to distract her mind. The cool morning spent running around the keep under watchful gazes, the afternoon seeing to supplies, scouts, missives, anything she could tally to distract from the running thoughts in her mind. For some time she watches agents spar with Bull, stays as they dealt with cards instead of steel afterwards, but it has all been for naught.

Even though she has accomplished much nothing seems to distract or interest her for long. She feels disconnected. Even the warmth of the desert sun can’t seem to awaken anything in her like it usually does. No matter what she does her mind wanders to the figure drawn in charcoal and then retreats into oblivion, blanking so that nothing can be felt. She is no stranger to grief, to the heavy feeling of hopelessness that makes skin hot and too small - she just wants this part to be done, for time to fly forward and ease the sting of it all.

A knock at the door brings Bull into her room. His clever gaze finds the book out of place, her jaw set tight, but he keeps his mouth shut on the subject. They do not need to explain despair to one another. “Hey Boss, take a walk with me outside?”

It is easy to agree and she only delays in stopping to strap on armor and grab her staff - there are assassins following her after all. They do not travel far from the keep, only to the raised platforms they built to navigate the poisonous waste tucked into the desert. The boards barely creak beneath their feet, made strong and sturdy to survive the harsh conditions for a long time.

“Is there something you wanted?” she asks as they reach the center mark. They’ve both been silent until then, gazing inward or down to watch the acidic smoke rise. Keela looks up to him now when he doesn’t answer and finds him gazing behind her down the path. 

There are two soldiers approaching wearing Inquisition colors and faces hard, weapons and magic drawn, deception and danger the only true badge they wear. A glance ahead shows two more approaching beyond Bull as well - a trap then, no where to escape forward or backward, death by heat and poison facing them on all sides. A dread fills her up as she returns her attention to Bull, wondering if his gaze has turned black like the memories in the crystal, if he is already lost to her, but there is only understanding to be found.

“Ben-Hassrath. Knew they’d be coming for me eventually and wanted to draw them out.”

“Over the sulfur pits?”

He grins as he pulls his ax free. “Thought you’d like the challenge.”

She does.

Keela doesn’t bother with a barrier - she wants this to be close, to feel the force of her attackers pressing in, to feel alive again on the edge of death. With little room on the platform she gets her wish regardless. The staff in hand catches the sharp edge of a sword and turns it away, feet shift to the side to avoid the shield that tries to knock her askance. When the first falls easily, a bell of discord rings in her ears. Only the eyes of her opponents can be seen beneath heavy helms, but she knows every move they’ll make through those narrow slits. It is a testament to her growing skill, or a lack of theirs, and she’s not sure which one frustrates her more.

“Boss!” Bull holds out his hand and she takes it, hanging on when he swings her forward towards a staggered enemy. She kicks them square in the chest to send them flying into the pit. For a moment she is over it too, heart leaping into throat, life flowing from her wild and free and like it once was in the before. She doesn’t remember landing again but she must, for there is fire and steel everywhere, shouts and exertion loud in her ears.

There is only one left, stuck between her and Bull, the change of tide evident in their panicked gaze. Neither of them get to finish the blow or even consider dragging them in for questioning as an arrow punches through their skull and out one eye, drops them to the ground with one last gasp.

A loud whoop from far away, and across the hill a group of travelers approaches, one a lithe figure holding her bow in the air victorious. The Inquisition caravan with Thom and Sera in tow has finally arrived just in time to steal one last kill. “Nailed it!” comes her voice across the dune and Bull gives a quiet chuckle.

“Don’t know if that was skill or luck. Hard to tell with her,” he says. “You all right, Boss?”

Keela gazes down at the bodies, the parts of bodies, the blood soaking into new wood. The heat of battle is quickly fading and taking whatever exhilaration was filling inside, leaving the edges of her cold and caught again. Some remains, embers trying to catch fire once more, but it’s not enough. It’s not  _enough_. “Will there be more?”

“They only wanted to send a message. Next time it won’t be so easy.”

“I will not let them take you, for as long as you wish to remain. If the Qun wages war against you then I will bring the whole Inquisition and more down upon them.”

“Yeah, thanks. You didn’t answer my question though.”

“I don’t know,” she admits before turning back towards the way they came.

Sera all but tackles her when they meet. She’s covered in sand and sweat, words pouring out of her about their journey with bandits and lizards and  _Cole_  being creepy, and it is not so difficult for Keela to find a smile for this. Thom keeps a respectable distance, giving a nod of his head and piping in when Sera asks him to vouch for her stories.

They’re met half way by soldiers from Griffon Wing with Rylen at the head, a repeat of their recent rescue although the battle is over this time. “Inquisitor! What happened?”

“We’re unharmed.”

“Begging your pardon, but was there a reason for this madness? Not but days ago you were besieged by assassins on the road and now you run off on your lonesome. We-”

“Ser Rylen.” Keela throws caution into her tone and his expression smooths into something less open, stations and distance remembered. “We can debrief in private. Have men search and then dispose of the bodies for now.” 

“Of course, Inquisitor. Straight away.”

Once they reach the keep, Keela is dragged back to her room and listens to Sera’s demands for a bath in the Inquisitor’s name, laughs as her friend jumps into the tub with a loud and relieved whoop. “Don’t know how you can stand this place. All the  _places_  it gets.”

“It was good of you to come with Thom. Do you plan to go to Adamant with him?”

“Can’t. Thought about not caring but he doesn’t want me to go in case…Told him to cut it the whole way here. Told him you wouldn’t chase him.” Sera shoots her a look, daring her to disagree.

Keela sits in a chair nearby with a sigh. There won’t be a need. “He is finished with running.”

Sera mumbles something into the water, her scowling reflection amplifying her displeasure. There’s concern rippling around the margins too, helplessness swimming in the sea of her eyes. Keela could tell her the whole story, the future that is certain when so much else is unknown, but she doubts Sera will appreciate knowing what happened to their world. Sometimes reality is better left hanging on its last thin thread, at least for now. 

“It true what that shiny one said about the assassins?”

“Shiny?”

“Yeah, the guy with the sharp helmet. Spot him from miles away.”

Keela lets out a little laugh at Rylen’s description. “Yes. They call themselves The Red Sons, the last remaining zealots of Corypheus. They want to avenge their god’s life by taking mine. However, the ones outside today were Ben-Hassrath after Bull.”

“Everything was supposed to go back to normal. Parties and punching nobles? Normal.  _Ass_ assins and creepy Qun? Not normal.” Sera shakes her head. “Well, maybe normal. Normaler, but still shite.” 

It is hard to argue. Though she thrives on this conflict, on the edge of battle and nestled deep on her throne, Keela wouldn’t mind a few days spent with feet tucked into the sand, waves kissing the skin of her ankles. No schedule besides that of the tides and the sun setting behind painted villas bright with colors and spices. Would some time far removed from these memories and lives lived and lost be something to heal these wounds? 

“No going back, is there?” Sera says. Once there would only be panic at the thought but it is not as bright as before, dulled by experience and acceptance. “Not  _all_  bad. Before had no you or Thom. More arrows now too. Less breeches. It’s…whatever. I would’ve…he would’ve been on my list once, yeah? Some high twat with orders and making little people pay for it. Not normal normal can be good. Don’t get all twisted about me saying so, though.”

Keela smiles. “I won’t.”

They lapse into silence for awhile, the splash of Sera’s toes the only sound. “You all right? With, you know, the knifey knives in the dark.” Keela bites the inside of her mouth to keep from screaming, wonders if she can make an official decree to never be asked this question again. 

“I mean, I know you’re all right,” Sera continues. “The gits will get what’s coming to them right in their faces, but I notice things, yeah? I saw you out there fighting. Seems like you’re fighting something else. Something not with knives. I can help, with knives. Or words. Both.”

“You cannot, not unless you know how to remember and forget at the same time.”

Sera leans her arms out of the tub, splashing water and suds in her wake, a smile bubbling up on her face. “Oh, I can help with that.”

 _Help_  involves a tankard of ale spiced with apples and cinnamon, a space around a roasting spit where one can hide in the fire’s shadows or dance in its light, music that fills the dull void of white noise in her head. Keela isn’t usually one to partake in excess- she has never liked the out of control feeling from intoxication, of being separated from control by a fog, but that is just what she needs right now. She needs an escape from her own thoughts for once. So she takes a sip and then another, swallows it all down and gestures for more. Warmth begins to tickle down to her toes, the world softening at the edges. All the problems are still there but it is hard to hold onto them and with relief she lets herself sink down. If only for a little while.

“See?” Sera whispers, words caught on laughter. “Helping.” 

Keela stays until there are constellations high in the sky she isn’t used to seeing and they all twinkle in hazy light, sway just like her body as she leaves the fire. She swerves a little too strongly to one side, feels that sick feeling of hurtling over into the point of no return, but thankfully there is someone steady there to stop her descent. 

A warm hand grasps hers, another holding onto her elbow. Large hands with dirt in the lines and scars across knuckles. She doesn’t know them, but she knows those eyes despite how the night darkens the blue, knows the cut of his face despite the shadows. “Tripped a few times in the dark myself, Lady Herald. Old stones always shifting,” Rylen says kindly.

“Perhaps I should send Cullen to help. You know how skilled he is in reconstruction.”

Rylen laughs. “Still not letting him live down that bridge in Exalted Plains, are you?”

“If I did, I’m sure we would have ended up neck deep in the icy depths of Emprise.” She hiccups a laugh in return at recalling her commander’s offended determination.

Rylen gives a smirk at her obvious state. It’s a look she knows well from their time together in Haven, an openness that has her seeking his company when others keep motives closed and close. “Can I walk you back to your quarters? Wanted to discuss today’s happenings. That is, if you’re in a right state to hear them.”

She tries to ignore the prickle of whatever is crawling up and down her spine and straightens it- decides she doesn’t care after all and accepts his arm. “I suppose I can spare a few moments.”

“How magnanimous. I wanted to apologize for my daft behavior earlier,” he says once they’re out of range of the others. “Should not have questioned your methods in front of the men like that. I know I seem a fool for doubting someone like you, but-”

“I am not immortal nor all knowing, despite some claims. You were right to question.”

“Can I get that in writing?” 

“Don’t push your luck, Ser.”

“The Iron Bull clued me in on today’s spectacle. Two groups of assassins? But I’m sure we’ll manage. There’s been a lot of managing out here to prepare us.”

“Has there been more trouble since your last letter? What was it last, lost supplies?” Her head is too mushy to assemble it all anymore, thousands of pieces of paper from missives and letters and proclamations swirling about her head like a snow squall. How many words has she read since she fell from the Fade the first time?

“Bandits, as it turned out. Never got to put to pen about the blighted varghest and demons been roaming from Adamant after that.” They reach the door to his former lodgings. “A story for another time, or at least a good night’s sleep from now. Rest easy, M’Lady.”

He gives a quick bow and moves to leave but doesn’t get far. Keela’s hand reaches for him this time, a reaction that leaves her just as surprised as him for a moment, but her heart is already beating with a growing desire for touch and something stronger. Rylen shifts his body back to face her but stays a distance away. She wants him closer, wants to chase after the burn and thrill, to feel anchored by the weight of him. She wants to find forgetfulness in a moment of little death.

“Stay.” She opens the door without looking, tugs on his arm to draw him inside. He doesn’t comply at first but doesn’t move away either, watches as she begins to play with the toggles of her overcoat. “Have you forgotten Haven?”

Rylen huffs a laugh, looking calm despite the fact that her coat is dropping to the floor and the Herald of Andraste is blushed with want and strong ale before him. “Being with you is not likely something I’m ever to forget. More than a year ago, though. Lots changed since then.”

Her hunger deflates a bit. “I am not holding you here, Ser Rylen. I apologize if you have commitments to keep. I was not aware-”

“I don’t, but,” he takes a step forward instead, pauses right outside the door. “things  _are_  a wee bit more complicated now though, eh? More…crowded on your part.”

“I would not invite you in if that was the case any longer.” It has been months since Solas took her vallaslin and left her stranded - it doesn’t feel longer or shorter, time distorted by all that has happened. It just feels endless.

At that Rylen steps across the threshold and meets her for a kiss, hard and heavy with history not forgotten. It takes only a few breaths for them to fall into the rhythm of the past, that time before so many names became hers and he only whispered her true one as they came together under Haven’s stars. Before Skyhold, before the Western Approach, before when her heart was something free to give and take away. Before it was Solas’.

Maybe it is wrong to chase away the taste of him by filling her mouth with Rylen, his tongue heavy with whiskey. Maybe it is wrong to make memories from the remains of ones that never existed. She knows she can fall into his arms because she already did once, in the past and in the future, but there is no love there to fill in the motions as she reaches beneath his shirt, rolls her body against his and swallows moans. It didn’t matter once as they sought nothing but the next high and it shouldn’t matter now, but it does even if he doesn’t know it. Everything  _matters_  and she just wants release from it all. 

When they part he grabs hold of her waist. It is gentler than she wants, a touch that grounds instead of carrying her away. He doesn’t insult her by trying to hide the desire in his eyes, but the caution still remains. “Nothing more I’d like to do than take you up on this offer. I’m not too proud to be someone’s distraction, but I’d be a lecherous creature to take advantage right now. Last thing I want is you waking up feeling wrong or guilty.”

Keela pushes him away, rough and clumsy. The ale in her stomach turns sour, the fog in her head blackening and rumbling. “You know nothing of my guilt.”

“I’m more than a few parts, lass. Got two perfectly good ears as well. If you need to talk-”

“So you would take advantage of what spills from my mouth instead of between my legs? Use my loose tongue in other ways?” 

“Now-”

She should be angry, she wants to be, but it is an empty space where once something burned bright. Now she is only tired, like spent ashes upon the floor. “You were right. I am in no condition for anything but sleep, so please leave me to it.” 

There’s a moment of silence as he must decide what to do, and she wonders what Solas would have done, and the idea sends a well of fire burning up her throat. She doesn’t want to care, to think about him at all for even a second. Rylen sighs, the sound accompanied by the creak of leather as he makes another bow on her behalf. “As you wish, Inquisitor.”

She has heard this tone before, felt this knife cut into her heart. How many men will use  _Inquisitor_  against her like a weapon or shield? For a moment the old rage bubbles out of her lips in a growl as she charges forward after him, but she is weary now, a cornered animal exhausted from the fight. “Do not use that title against me! To punish me and put me in marble so  _you_  do no have to feel. I-”

Just as quickly as it came the anger is replaced by something else, a humid lump of sorrow that she can’t seem to swallow down. There is no stopping the tears that rise up and begin to spill from her eyes, and with horror she gasps, turns her back on Rylen so he cannot see this weakness. She tries to find control again, to stop the choked breaths and center herself once more, but the alcohol in her system has done its job.  _Fool_.

“I’m sorry for that,” he says and she knows he means it, but she stays stiff, unwilling to give in to this anymore than she already has. “I know I’m not owed any of your secrets or thoughts. I can’t claim to know you inside out, but I think I’m not being too forward to say we have something akin to friendship. However much that’s worth I don’t know, but I know one thing. Not sure if anyone else’s said, but you needn’t carry it all, lass. Whatever it is.”

Keela drops her head and keeps quiet, fingernails digging into palms. When the silence stretches long, he accepts it as her answer. There are no sighs or elaborate bows this time, no undercurrent of darkness in his voice. “Goodnight, Keela.”

She lets him go. She listens to the sounds of his boots on the hard stone, listens to the door shut behind him and lock her away from the sounds of the night and the keep. Keela moves to the bed and crawls into it without removing her clothes, but doesn’t bother to shut her eyes to sleep. Eyes gaze up at the dark ceiling as her body sinks into the mattress, sinks further beneath the barley and the weight of so many lost things. She lets him go because he is wrong - there is no one to carry it but her. Whatever it is.


End file.
